


Blue Bleezin' Blind Drunk

by LunaCatriona



Series: Blue Bleezin' Blind Drunk [1]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-02-24 16:25:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 63,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13217598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaCatriona/pseuds/LunaCatriona
Summary: "And just for spite, I will stay out all night, and come rolling home drunk in the morning."It's drink that loosens Jean Innocent's tongue. That rebellion costs her the secrets hidden behind the armour she wears every day. And there's nothing she can do when all the darkness spills out into the open. Except, just maybe, let people offer a little bit of light.





	1. Chapter 1

He had never seen her do this. In fact, he had never thought this behaviour was possible of her, of all people. The woman who was so straight and narrow, even he couldn’t be more so than her. And yet here she was, falling over herself drunk on a Friday night.

Lewis had gone home an hour ago, and Laura had left them not long after. If he’d had anywhere else to go, perhaps he would have gone too, but given the rather unnerving behaviour he was currently witnessing, he was infinitely glad he had followed the instinct to stay. The problem was that Superintendent Innocent, that woman bound together by law and logic, was now swaying drunkenly in her seat. She did not seem overtly unhappy, but Hathaway couldn’t help but feel she would not be in this state in the first place if she were anywhere close to happy.

The night had started well, despite it being unusual for Innocent to join them, unprompted and completely of her own volition, in the pub. But it had been a long day and an even longer week, and Hathaway put her presence down to the notion that even Jean Innocent had her limits of what kind of week she could endure without a drink at the end of it.

She had been cheerful under the watchful gazes of Lewis and Laura; James reckoned they had been cautious of Innocent, too. Her mood had slipped so slowly that nobody had really noticed. James hadn’t even noticed until now, and that was probably because he had been left alone with her. She had turned subtly melancholic, staring into the bottom of her glass before stumbling to her feet with a smile for another. It was when she tripped and James caught her by the arm that he decided enough was enough. “Ma’am,” he said quietly. “I think you’ve had enough.”

Innocent struggled to fix her eyes on him, but when she did, she wore an expression so full of varying emotions that James couldn’t even begin to untangle what he found. “I think I’ve barely started,” she said. Her tone was so sweet James couldn’t trust it. This was a side to her he had never seen, and one he wished had never come out to play. “Want another?”

James let out a sigh. He was already over the limit, and someone had to stay with her when she was so horrendously out of sorts. “Alright. A half pint.”

He sat back down and watched her. She was already unsteady on her feet, and though she was chatty and friendly towards the barmaid, while she was left in her own quiet, something about her darkened. She returned and handed him a pint of bitter. “I said a half pint, ma’am” he reminded her.

“Oh,” she said as she got herself back into her seat. “Sorry, sergeant.”

It occurred to James when Innocent picked up her glass that she had been drinking whisky since Lewis had left. Innocent didn’t usually drink Scotch whisky. And yet here she was, knocking back whisky like it was going out of fashion. “Ma’am,” he dared begin, “are you alright?”

She smiled. “Perfectly fine.”

“Are you sure?” he persisted, leaning across the table a little. “This isn’t like you, ma’am.”

“I am fine,” she replied, her tone sterner, sharper, than it had been all night.

James held her stare, for he knew she was lying. If she were fine, she would be out doing something she enjoyed, not sitting in a dimly lit pub with her sergeant, getting drunk on alcohol she didn’t even like. She was drinking to get drunk, and that was not something rational, upright Jean Innocent did. It simply was not _her_. And perhaps James should not have cared as much as he did, but the fact was he _did_ care. How could he not, seeing his superintendent so far out of her usual ways? She was but one drink away from being incapable of making her own way home.

And she had that drink. In fact, she had two more before James intervened on the third. “Ma’am, I’m going to escort you home after you finish your drink.”

“No, James, you’re _not_ escorting me home.” Her voice was now noticeably slurred.

“Well, you can’t stay here, and you can’t keep drinking.” She glared at him. “Would you like me to call your husband and ask him to get you home?”

The bitterness of the replying laughter startled James. Whatever reaction he had expected, it had not been that. “No,” she said, draining her glass.

With what looked like a great deal of difficulty, Innocent stood up and headed for the bar. James took her by the wrist, got to his feet and blocked her path. “What are you doing, ma’am?”

“I’m going to get blue bleezin’ blind drunk.”

James frowned. That was not a term Innocent would normally would have come away with. Was she trying to tell him something? “What on Earth are you talking about, ma’am?” he asked. “Blue bleezin’ blind drunk?”

She clenched her jaw, like she believed she had said too much, and turned to pick up her coat. It seemed that she had finally decided to call it a night, though she could not possibly drive and James didn’t think she lived within walking distance. So when she stalked clumsily out of the pub, he went after her to make sure she got into a taxi. She didn’t stop to call a taxi; she just kept walking. James wasn’t sure Innocent actually knew where she was headed.

He caught up with her. “Ma’am, where are you going? Stop, and I’ll call you a taxi home.”

“I’m not going home,” she answered him.

“Then where _are_ you going?!” James demanded. He was becoming more exasperated by the minute. Why was she being like this? She was behaving like a reckless, foolish, idiotic drunkard. This did not compute at all with the woman James knew Jean Innocent to be. She did not tell him where she was going, which strengthened his theory that she did not know where it was she wanted to go; he seized her arm and stopped her. “Ma’am, I can’t let you wander off like this. You’re drunk, you’re melancholic, and you’re not…you’re not _you_. So, please, do not make me follow you all night.” She jerked her arm away from him, and he released his grip; he hadn’t noticed that he hadn’t let her go. “Sorry, ma’am.”

Innocent looked up and, in her eyes, he found a stubborn bravery.

“I won’t go home, sergeant.”

He rubbed his forehead for a moment. “Then come home with me, ma’am. Just don’t walk the streets of Oxford inebriated. Especially in those shoes,” he added with a wry smirk, inclining his head to her feet, and the high heels in which they stood.

He offered her his arm; with a great deal of obvious reluctance, Innocent took it, and they walked slowly and deliberately to his front door. They walked for fifteen minutes without saying a word. He didn’t see any need to ask her questions he knew she would not – or could not – answer. With the door unlocked and her shoes and coat taken off, Innocent made her way to his living room, staggering a little. James resisted the urge to shake his head at her; why was such an impressive, intelligent woman doing something so utterly stupid?

“Go upstairs,” he told her, “and take a shower. It’ll sober you up.”

Innocent rested her head on her hand. “I don’t want to be sober.”

“Yes, ma’am, I’d gathered that much. But you’re under my roof now, and I’m afraid I need you to be sober. Or at least not…” he gestured towards her with both hands, not really knowing how to describe the woman in front of him.

“Wasted?” she supplied.

“Yes, ma’am.”

James went upstairs and found a clean t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, and a couple of freshly washed towels; when he returned to the living room, Innocent was on her feet and looking through his bookshelves. “You really are fascinating, sergeant,” she mused.

“In what way, ma’am?”

“You’re better-read than anyone I know,” she said with her back to him, “and yet everything beyond what’s printed on a page seems to be a mystery to you.” She turned around, leaving James to question what was going through Innocent’s mind when she said things like that. “I’d hoped pairing you with Lewis might have helped with that, but sometimes I wonder if you’re as hopeless as each other.”

James paused to take in just how drink loosened Innocent’s tongue. “Towels, ma’am,” he eventually said, handing the pile of fabrics to her, “and a pair of pyjamas.”

While Innocent was in the shower, James stripped and remade his bed, and went downstairs to make tea and toast. Innocent resurfaced just as the toaster popped. “What are you doing?” she asked.

“Phase two of Operation: Sober Up Chief Superintendent Innocent,” James said, removing four slices of toast from the machine. “Sugar and milk are on the table. What do you take on toast, ma’am?” A ghost of a smile drifted across Innocent’s face as she sat down and started spooning sugar into her tea.

“I don’t suppose you’ve got any Nutella in those bare cupboards of yours, sergeant?” she said when she looked up at him.

James had to make a conscious effort not to display any outward sign of amusement or surprise. “Uh, yeah, somewhere,” he said. At the back of the cupboard, behind the jam, he found a jar he had bought a couple of weeks ago after a sudden craving for it while under the influence of alcohol. Perhaps drink made the stuff more appealing.

He observed her closely as she ate and drank. She as still drunk but she was not half as bad as she had been walking back, or when she had nearly fallen over in the pub. Her face was full of a story she could not tell, behind the soft smile she used as a deterrent for any interrogation. James tried to respect Innocent’s wish not to talk about it, but he had to say _something_ , didn’t he? Surely? He simply could not let her go to bed thinking nobody was willing to listen if ever she decided to speak. So, he sat down beside her with his own cup of tea. “Ma’am,” he said cautiously, “you know, if there’s something you need to say, you can say it to me. It won’t go any further.”

She turned to look at him, her hand holding toast to her mouth. “Thank you, sergeant, but I’ll be alright,” she said. She was not unkind in the way she said it, but James knew she was not willing to discuss it. Not tonight, anyway.

It was almost midnight when he led her upstairs to his bedroom. “You can sleep here, ma’am. I’ll be downstairs if you need anything,” he told her.

“No, it’s okay, I’ll sleep on the sofa-”

“No, ma’am, please take the bed. I’d rather you were comfortable.”

Her gratitude was plain to see in the tiny smile she shot him before she headed towards his bed. “Thank you,” she said.

“You’re welcome. Goodnight, ma’am.”

“Goodnight, sergeant.”

He left her to her own devices, a little more secure in the knowledge she was not quite as drunk as before and certainly more aware of her surroundings. He wished she would just spit it out, whatever her reasons for doing this. It was almost a sort of rebellion, defying everyone’s expectations of her and then refusing to go home. And if James had learned anything in his time as a detective, it was that nobody rebelled unless they – or some part of them – felt oppressed.

James checked on her in the early hours of the morning, when he had got up to go to the bathroom; coming up the stairs, he could have sworn he had heard a quiet and stifled sobbing. But when he entered the room and knelt down beside her, she appeared to be fast asleep. Whether she really was asleep, well, that was debatable. However, unwilling to risk waking her if she really was sleeping, he pushed her hair from her face and stood up. He had to leave her to it, for it was not his place to keep pressuring her to justify her behaviour. If Innocent wanted to give him an explanation, she would, and James knew it would not come from any harassment of his.


	2. Chapter 2

Jean rolled over, woken by a stream of sunlight and a vengeful headache. The scent of washing powder assaulted her sense of smell, and she realised suddenly that she was not in her own bed, and her husband was not lying next to her. Snippets of last night flashed through her head. She recalled very nearly falling out with Hathaway, and that he had stopped her from storming off. There was a bizarre image of Nutella on toast and James’ face close to hers in the dead of night. This, she worked out, was James Hathaway’s bed.

They had been in the pub. She had wanted to get drunk so she had gone with Robbie, James and Laura. She remembered Laura had watched her intently. In fact, so had Robbie, and James had watched her like she was going to burst into flames at any given moment. At some stage, she had been left alone with James, and he had asked what she was doing. She heard once again the concern in his voice – it had almost bordered on fear. And when she realised what she had said in reply, she wanted to thump herself.

“I’m going to get blue bleezin’ blind drunk.”

James was a detective, and a good one at that. If he had any misgivings about her drunkenness last night, he would look into what had been most out of her character, and _that_ was those words. But why, for all that was living, dead and in between, had she even said that? She knew what it meant. In her drunken and lonely state, had she wanted James to know it as well? Could she have allowed drink to cause such recklessness in her?

As warm and clean and comfortable as this bed was, she needed to get up and go back to her own home. She had intruded long enough; she was probably fairly close to outstaying her welcome, if she hadn’t already. It was better to leave before James woke up, anyway; she didn’t want to have to endure any interrogations or offers of a listening ear. She might just cave in to it.

Jean’s stomach gave an empty rumble, and she silently cursed her hangover; where others might find themselves unable to even look at food after a night drinking, she would have eaten James out of house and home if she had the nerve to. However, she did not have the nerve, while sober, to beg food from the sergeant after he had so graciously given up his bed for her.

With a groan, she sat up and switched on the bedside lamp. She was too old for these hangovers.

At the foot of the bed, her clothes and shoes are neatly placed on an ottoman, waiting for her to change. That young man really did think of everything, didn’t he?

She made it out the front door without waking James, though she did find a notepad and a pen, and scribbled down: _Sorry for my behaviour last night. Thanks for having my back. See you on Monday._

* * *

 

When James went into work on Monday morning, he wanted to see Innocent. To see with his own two eyes that she was as perfectly alright as she claimed to be. So when she called them in for an update on the Holden murder they’d begun investigating that morning, James was more than willing to follow Robbie, just to observe his superintendent. And, though she looked tired, and she was in the middle of a serious migraine, she was functioning. She was sober. She was, to the naked eye, perfectly alright.

And yet, James’ mind was not even nearly at rest. It didn’t take long for Lewis to notice, either. “What’s eatin’ at you, sergeant?” he finally asked as he parked in his space at the police station. “You’ve been walkin’ about like you’re at a funeral all day, man.”

James got out of the car and slammed the door. “Blue bleezin’ blind drunk, sir,” he finally said, walking with his boss into the building. “Does it mean anything to you?”

Robbie looked around at him. “It’s a song, isn’t it?” he said.

“I don’t know, sir. Is it?”

“Yeah,” Robbie said with more certainty. “I think it goes, ‘So I’ll go and get blue bleezin’ blind drunk,’” he recited, though he, thankfully, chose to say it rather than sing it. “‘Just to give Mickey a warnin’. And just for spite I will stay out all night, and come rollin’ home drunk in the mornin’.’”

James felt his blood run cold. Just what had Innocent been trying to tell him on Friday night? He let the subject of those words drop with Robbie, but as they headed towards the stairs, he found he did need the inspector’s opinion.

“Do you think Superintendent Innocent is alright?” James asked. Robbie looked at him in obvious surprise. “It’s just, after you and Dr. Hobson left on Friday, she got, well, for want of a better word, plastered, sir.”

Lewis raised his eyebrows. “What, our Innocent?”

“Yes, sir,” James replied. “She almost fell over at one point.” He chose not to disclose the fact he had taken Innocent into his home to prevent her wandering around Oxford drunk on a Friday night. That, he decided, Robbie did not need to know.

“Well, she was fair knockin’ it back before I left, but she’d had a difficult week. We all did. Maybe she was just, I dunno…letting off steam?”

“Oh, maybe it’s nothing,” he sighed, climbing the stairs to their office.

“What’s your gut tellin’ you?” Robbie asked.

The question surprised James, for he had not really let his gut come into it at all. He had looked at it through the eyes of an investigator, working on the evidence he had. But the more he thought about it, the more his instinct told him something _was_ wrong. He simply could not ignore such antics from a woman whose idea of letting her hair down was to go and hear an orchestra. “My intuition says all is not well in the world of Jean Innocent,” he admitted. Robbie sat down at his desk, and James leaned against the filing cabinet. “It’s just so _unlike_ her, sir. She knows better than to get in that state.”

“Then you follow your gut, James,” Robbie asserted. “Not entirely sure _how_ , mind, but you trust it.”

He knew what Lewis was getting at. James could dissect Innocent all he wanted in his head, but doing it anywhere outside of his own mind was going to pose a problem. He couldn’t see Innocent taking very kindly to being asked repeatedly what was wrong with her.

“I’m gonna go and get a coffee. You want one?”

“Yes, please, sir,” James replied. He sat down at his desk and logged onto his computer, heading for YouTube. He typed into the search bar the words Innocent had said to him on Friday night, and clicked a link of two young women behind microphones. The piano arrangement was haunting from the very start. “ _Dear friends, I have a sad story_ ,” sang the girl, in an accent not unlike Lewis’. “ _A very sad story to tell; I married a man for his money; and he’s worse than the Devil himself_.”

It was slow, almost spooky. “ _I’ll go and I’ll get blue bleezin’ blind drunk; just to give Mickey a warning; and just for to spite, I might stay out all night; and come rolling home drunk in the morning_.”

James leaned forwards while the piano led into the next verse. He didn’t like this. He didn’t like this at all. “ _When Mickey comes home in the evening; he batters me all black and blue; he knocks me about from the kitchen; from the bedroom right through to the room_.”

The piano was soon joined by a violin, the music becoming more and more intense, changing from fragility to fury in mood as it grew subtly faster. The second girl started to sing. Her voice was different – angrier – and her accent more pronounced. “ _Of whisky I ne’er was a lover; but what can a poor woman do? Oh, I’ll go and I’ll drown all my sorrows, but I wish I could drown Mickey too_.”

He closed his eyes and put his hands over his face. Please, God, this could not be what Innocent had been trying to tell him. “ _Oh, I’ll go and I’ll get blue bleezin’ blind drunk; just to give Mickey a warning; and just for to spite, I might stay out all night; and come rolling drunk in the morning_.”

Lewis returned to the door, but Hathaway could not bring himself to turn the music off. He needed to hear it, right to the end. “ _Oh, friends, I have a sad story; a very sad story to tell; oh, I married a man for his money, and he’s worse than the Devil himself; oh, I’ll go and I’ll get blue bleezin’ blind drunk; just to give Mickey a warning; and just for to spite, I’ll stay out all night; and come rolling home drunk in the morning; oh, I’ll go and I’ll get blue bleezin’ blind drunk; just to give Mickey a warning!_ ” the girl sang. The anger in her voice was almost palpable. “ _And just for to spite, I’ll stay out all night; and come rolling home drunk in the morning_.”

Robbie placed a cup of coffee down in front of James. “Not a pretty song, is it?” he observed.

“No,” James agreed. “Not pretty at all.”

“Still,” Robbie sighed, “I suppose that’s how women coped with abusive husbands back then. They weren’t as able to come forward as they are now, were they?”

“Back when?” James asked. “When was it written?”

“It’s a folk song,” Lewis explained. “People just hear them from each other, don’t they? The words change depending on where you picked it up, but it's all the same song. It’s probably as old as the hills.”

The question was, could James let it lie? It was, after all, a drunken rambling on Innocent’s part.

No. No, he could not. If there was even the slightest chance there was a problem here, he had to at least go to her with the evidence he had. Even if she denied it, even if she rebuked him for looking into it, at least she would know someone had listened to her.

So, he looked up the lyrics online and printed off two copies, and headed for Innocent’s office. When he knocked on her door, he heard the familiar call of, “Come in!”

James made no introductory remarks. He simply handed Innocent one sheet of paper and kept one for himself, reading aloud from the second verse. “‘When Mickey gets home in the evening; he batters me all black and blue; he knocks me about from the kitchen; from the bedroom right through to the room; of whisky I ne’er was a lover; but what can a poor woman do? I’ll go and I’ll drown all my sorrows, but I wish I could drown Mickey too. Oh, I’ll go and I’ll get blue bleezin’ blind drunk,’” he said; he looked up briefly to see Innocent was staring down at the page. “‘Just to give Mickey a warning; and just for to spite, I might stay out all night; and come rolling home drunk in the morning.’”

James lowered the paper and waited for Innocent to raise her head. It took her nearly a minute. He could practically see the cogs turning in her head as she tried to figure out the best response. “What are you talking about, sergeant?” she asked coldly.

He sat down in the chair opposite her. “What do you remember about Friday night, ma’am?”

Innocent opened her mouth and closed it again twice over before she actually spoke. “I got a little bit drunk, yes,” she sighed. “You were the perfect gentleman and offered up your bed and went to sleep on the sofa.”

“Yes,” he replied. “You point blank refused to go home. In fact, you were happier to saunter around drunk all night rather than go home. And while we were in the pub, I decided you were drinking far too heavily and I asked you what you were doing. You told me you were going to ‘get blue bleezin’ blind drunk’, ma’am.”

“I wasn’t just a _little bit_ drunk, sergeant,” she sighed, placing her sheet of paper down on the desk. “I made Robert Downey Jr. look like the poster boy for sobriety. You know as well as I do people talk utter nonsense when they’re drunk.”

James allowed a slight smile to his lips. He had thought she might argue that point. “On the contrary, ma’am, I generally find people are more truthful when they’re drunk. You see who they really are.”

Innocent glared at him. “What exactly is it you’re insinuating, Sergeant Hathaway?”

“I’m not insinuating anything,” he said honestly. “I’m merely presenting the evidence to you. But I will ask you the question, because if I don’t, I’ll never forgive myself. When you go home, and bear in mind I now _know_ you don’t always want to go home, are you safe, ma’am?”

Innocent stared through those eyes through which James saw a hundred lies. “Completely safe, sergeant,” she said. Her tone had turned not just cold, but empty. “Thank you for your concern.” He was dismissed. She didn’t even have to say it; he left the room but turned and looked through her blinds. She had put her head in her hands.


	3. Chapter 3

Jean Innocent couldn’t quite remember how she got here. Or, more to the point, she couldn’t remember drinking enough to end up where she was now. She vaguely recognised it as her office, though it was dimly lit and out of focus; the light of the one lamp she had turned on in the corner had grown legs and turned into a star. She didn’t know why she was sitting on the floor when there were several chairs in the room, but she knew she was in no fit state to stand up and she wasn’t stupid enough to try it.

Three weeks ago, James Hathaway had crossed a line and asked her a question that was not his to ask. Ever since, she had kept out of his way. Where she could, she asked for Robbie instead of James. Not because she was angry at James – if anything, she found it rather sweet that he gave a damn at all – but because she could just feel those eyes burning through her.

This week had been taken over by yet another horrific case, involving a woman who had accidentally killed her six-year-old son in a fit of rage directed at her husband. If the mother hadn’t tried to cover it up, she might not have been in such trouble as she found herself in now, but her son’s tiny body had been found hidden in the loft under a mound of blankets and sheets. She had confessed to it all, including the plan to bury her son’s body when the police stopped searching.

It took its toll on the whole team. Laura had done the post-mortem and had not been the same since. Robbie and James were more uptight than usual, and were staying late tonight writing it up, though they didn’t know she knew that. She had let them think she believed them when they said they would go home and write it up in the morning; in fairness, she knew they had meant that when they said it, and reconsidered later.

On second thoughts, they were bound to come through here with their report, and they could not find her like this. She was going to have to get up and walk out of here.

But not just yet. She brought her knees up to her chin and took a swig of whisky. Where she would go when she left the station, Jean wasn’t yet sure. There was nowhere she _could_ go. Not without involving outsiders, and that never was a bright idea. And she couldn’t drive – if nothing else, she didn’t want to bring harm to anybody else. There was nowhere within walking distance, and she wasn’t sure buses were running and, even if she managed to get as far as phoning a taxi, she wouldn’t have the first idea where to tell the driver to go.

She had nowhere. She had nobody.

And that was why she had to go home. As angry as she was, as drunk as she was, it was the only place she could go, and the only address to which she could direct a taxi driver.

So, with great difficulty, Jean staggered to her feet, thumping the whisky bottle down onto the nearest solid surface. It was almost a surprise to her that she had been capable of even that. She knew she was swaying, though she felt still; the giveaway was the manner in which her surroundings tilted ever so slightly. Clumsily, she put on her coat, picked up her handbag and stepped into the shoes she had put on this morning when she had not expected to be walking under the influence of over half a bottle of whisky.

It was a very deliberate movement, to put one foot in front of the other. So deliberate that she could not look up from the floor without stumbling, and so walked straight into someone halfway down the corridor. “Ma’am?” a familiar voice asked. She looked up to find herself face to face with Robbie Lewis, who held a file in his hand. “I was just on me way to see you, actually. Got the reports for the case here.”

“Thanks, Robbie,” she said. Jean internally cringed at the way in which her voice slurred. “Just put them on my desk, will you?” God, when did speaking become such a chore?

Robbie then did the last thing she expected him to do: he took her by the arm and steered her back to her office, slamming the door behind them. Jean realised only now that she hasn’t switched the lamp off. “You’re drunk, ma’am,” he accused her. He stepped over to the desk and picked up the half-empty whisky bottle. “Did you drink all that?!”

Jean opened her mouth to answer, but discovered that, for once, she didn’t _have_ an answer. Robbie took out his phone and started pressing buttons. “What are you doing?” she said.

“I’m calling Laura,” Robbie replied. “James and I have still got stuff to wrap up here and you can’t be trusted to get home in one piece. Not the amount you’ve had.”

“I’m fine, Robbie,” Jean protested, but even as she said it, the room around her moved faster than she did.

“Sit down,” he ordered her, putting his phone to his ear. “You’ve had a skinful, ma’am.” More because she felt a little sick than because she was willing to obey Robbie, she sat down in a chair and watched powerlessly as he started to speak to Laura Hobson. “Hey, Laura. Listen, are you free? No, no, nothing like that! No, I’ve got a very drunk Chief Superintendent here, who needs a lift home. I would but we’ve got stuff still to do here. Oh, I don’t know. Okay, that’s fine. I’ll get Hathaway to watch her ‘til you get here. Oh, aye, I’m guessin’ there’s more alcohol in her veins than blood at the moment. Thanks.”

As he hung up the phone, Jean realised she had been watching too intensely, and that she really did _not_ want James in here with her. “Don’t send me James, Robbie.”

“I thought you get on with James?” She looked down at her hand, twisting her engagement and wedding rings around her finger. “Has somethin’ happened between you two? A fallin’ out?”

“No,” Jean replied. “But he knows.”

“Knows what, ma’am?”

“He just knows.”

Robbie frowned at her. Did he understand what she was saying, or was it drunken nonsense to him? “Is there somethin’ you need to tell me, Jean?” he asked softly. She felt her body twitch at the sound of her first name being used in the workplace. “Is there a reason you’re doin’ this to yourself?” She hadn’t noticed she was crying until Robbie pulled out a handkerchief and passed it to her.

She accepted it and wiped the tears from her face, horrified when they were instantly replaced.

“You’re in some mess, lass.” All professional front had been dropped. He was no longer submitting to her rank or her authority; she abandoned that privilege for tonight the moment she had opened a whisky bottle in her office.

The door opened, and the tall, skinny figure of James Hathaway stepped into the room. “Is everything okay, sir? I was starting to worry, you’d been so long.”

“I’m fine, James,” sighed Robbie. “Superintendent Innocent, on the other hand…” he trailed away, sitting down on a chair opposite Jean.

James sat next to Robbie. “This is no good, is it, ma’am?” he said. His smile was sad and his tone compassionate.

Jean remained silent, struggling to form thoughts, never mind words.

“James, can you stay here with her until Laura gets here? I know we’ve got stuff to do but I’d rather not leave her on her own.”

“Of course, sir.”

Robbie left them; James reached out his hand to Jean’s head. She flinched. She couldn’t do anything to stop it. Intellectually, she knew James was probably just intending to push her hair out of her face, but her instinct forced her to jerk herself away from him. After all, who on this Earth could truly be trusted? Even full of drink, she could make out the flash of hurt that crossed James’ face at her silent accusation of malevolence. “Sorry,” she mumbled. Jean pushed her own hair back behind her ears, and James took his hand back.

“Ma’am,” James sighed, “it’s horrible, seeing you like this.”

“Then don’t look,” snapped Jean.

“And if I don’t look, what happens to you?” he asked. “You’re fine for weeks, and then you go and do this. It doesn’t make sense, ma’am.”

“You still expect this world to make sense, James?” scoffed Jean.

James leaned forward slowly; she realised he was trying not to make sudden movements. “No,” he admitted. “But of all the things _in_ this world, ma’am, you are the one thing that’s always made sense. You’ve always been a pillar of logic and law-abiding behaviour. I used to think you slept with the police procedure textbooks under your pillow,” smiled James. Even Jean laughed at that one, and was shocked by the mirth as it travelled from her diaphragm and out of her mouth. God, she had forgotten how it felt to laugh.

It was a strange sensation, to be so utterly drunk and dejected, and yet still be able to laugh at James Hathaway’s daft sense of humour. She actually felt guilty for laughing, for any spark of life or gladness she had in her. How had she arrived here?

They sat quietly for almost half an hour, James watching Jean as she contemplated her life decisions. Every night she had spent at work rather than at home, every phone conversation tersely cut short by her own impatience to get back to the job, every time she had spoken her mind when she should just have bit her tongue. It all had led her here, to this pain and this humiliation of her own making. Chief Superintendent Innocent, totally pissed in her office, supervised by Sergeant Hathaway like a naughty five-year-old. It was pathetic. It was contemptable, that she didn’t know better. Or that she _did_ know better, and did it anyway.

Jean got unsteadily out of her chair, loath to let James keep scrutinising her soul. “Ma’am, please sit down. I don’t want you to fall over.”

She could hear him pace behind her; didn’t he trust her to walk across her own office? “Sergeant,” she said; all her effort was put into making her tone a strict one. “If you do not stop following me, I will-”

But she never got make her threat. Laura Hobson appeared at the door with a soft smile. “I’ve come to take you home, Jean,” she said.

“I’m not going home,” she immediately replied. Wherever she was going, it wasn’t home. “I _won’t_ go home, especially drunk.” The very thought of stepping through that door with her reactions so slow made her hands tremble. There could be no way she’d come out of that scenario unscathed.

Laura put a hand gingerly on Jean’s back. “I know, Jean, I know. Calm down. Robbie gave me his keys,” she said. “We’ll go there, okay? I’ve got some of my stuff in the car you can borrow.”

That journey was a quick one. She hadn’t realised Robbie lived so near. Or maybe it just seemed quick because Jean was dreading having to sit alone in Robbie’s flat until he got home; that time would only be spent trying to dream up a reason for her behaviour that Robbie might actually believe, all while her mind processed at a quarter of its normal speed. A lie that would absolve her of any major weakness. She was, after all, Robbie’s boss, and there could be no question of him discovering just how big a mess her life really was. She didn’t fear going home for all the usual reasons police officers might fear it – the spouse who barely knew them, the children they were too tired to interact with, the late hour that left no time for family life, the dinner made by a long-suffering spouse sitting cold in the microwave. Jean Innocent could have dealt with that. There was a test she would have passed with flying colours.

Out of sheer politeness, Jean said to Laura, “Thanks for driving me.”

To Jean’s surprise, Laura set about making coffee. She watched, wondering what the hell Laura was doing. “What?” Laura asked with a slightly confused smile.

“You’re not leaving me?”

Laura stepped around the kitchen worktop, apparently astounded by Jean’s question. “No!” she half-laughed. “Why would I leave you?”

And suddenly, Jean was standing – swaying – in the middle of Robbie Lewis’ living room, the broken pieces of her life on the floor around her. How guilty she had felt for finding something James said funny, the compassion Robbie had shown her, the kindness in Laura Hobson’s face as they stared wordlessly at one another…it was all wrong. And she was frozen in time now, with no way forwards or back; she couldn’t pull back when Laura reached out for her face, though intuition screamed at her to let nobody near her face, her chest or her gut. Jean Innocent was simply frozen. Rooted to the spot in which she stood.

“Jean?” Laura said urgently. “Jean, talk to me.”

But Jean couldn’t. If she talked, she was going to cry. She wasn’t drunk enough for it to be numb; like skin after anaesthetic, she had managed to keep it so when it was poked, she could feel a pressure, but never the pain. And she didn’t want to cry. That was the worst thing that could happen. But in holding it back, she turned it onto herself, and it started to kill her. It stripped her of her ability to breathe. She couldn’t breathe. She was dying. Suffocating. She was going to die. There was no way to survive suffocation like this. Her body wanted her to die.

She felt her hand being placed on Laura’s chest. “Jean, I need you to let the air out of your lungs,” she said calmly. “You’re having a panic attack. You’re going to be alright. You’re safe. But you need to breathe.”

Jean tried to focus her attention on her hand rising and falling with Laura’s chest. She tried to time her breathing with Laura’s. Slowly it evened out, and her chest no longer felt like it might rip itself open. Laura’s hands were on Jean’s face, her piercing blue eyes glazing up at her. “And _that_ is why you can’t internalise it,” Laura said earnestly. “Never, _ever_ internalise it like that.”

Laura shook her head to herself and pulled Jean into an unexpected embrace. She couldn’t know that her arms pressed against the most painful area of her upper back, where her shoulder blades had hit plaster, brick, wood and doorpost so frequently Jean feared the marks were permanent. The involuntary wince, the sharp intake of air that was her body’s reaction to the physical pain, gave her away; Laura drew back. “Where does it hurt?” she asked.

“Oh, it’s fine,” Jean brushed the question aside. “I just caught my shoulder blade on the corner of the wardrobe this morning.”

But Laura was no fool. “I didn’t ask for an excuse. I asked where it hurts.”


	4. Chapter 4

James turned off the office light, and turned to Robbie. “Sir, would you mind if I stop at your place on my way home? I’d just like to make you’re the superintendent is okay.”

“‘Course,” Robbie replied. “She might be asleep, mind.”

“I’m hoping she’s asleep,” James admitted. “At least she’d be getting some rest.”

As they walked down the corridor, James tried to imagine a scenario where Jean Innocent had done this – got drunk in her place of work – without being at a crisis point. There was nothing James could think of that would cause her to behave like this that wasn’t utterly catastrophic in nature. No workplace dispute or professional stress would do this to her; she tended to cope with those types of things remarkably well, even if she did complain that he and Robbie brought on her migraines with their methods.

No, it was nothing to do with work. And he refused to believe he was wrong about what she had been trying to tell him. At her most vulnerable, she had reached out for help, and he had not understood the reference at the correct moment. That opportunity to help her passed him by completely, and when he had broached the subject with her the next working day, she had been sober and had not taken him on at all.

“James,” Robbie said cautiously, “you know you asked me about that song a few weeks ago?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That was about Innocent, wasn’t it?”

James sighed, knowing he was going to have to tell Lewis everything about that night. “Yes, sir. I asked her what she was doing when she wouldn’t stop drinking. She said she was going to ‘get blue bleezin’ blind drunk’. It was such an odd thing to say, I guessed it had to mean something.” They left the building, each stopping at their own car, continuing the conversation over the rooves. “I took her home with me that night, sir. She was going to wander around drunk all night, so I took her home. I did my best to sober her up and gave her my bed. I’d forgotten I’m far too tall to sleep on my sofa. Worst night’s sleep I’ve had in ages.”

Robbie’s eyes sliced through him; his inspector always knew when he needed to hear something from him. “You did the right thing, James.”

“I crossed a line.”

“You might’ve saved her life,” Robbie said bluntly. “If she was _that_ drunk, imagine what could’ve happened to her? Hit by a car, a fall, attacked…anything could’ve happened. No, you were right to take her home, James.”

More relieved by Robbie’s reassurances than he ever would confess, James got into his car and followed Lewis to his home.

* * *

 

“Leave me alone.”

It was the fourth time Jean had uttered those three words to Laura, but the message didn’t seem to be getting across. Her stomach was in a thousand knots, and those knots were tied together into the tightest, most painful lump of fear and panic. She didn’t want all this to come out. She wanted it to remain hidden, and to continue dealing with it the way she had been before they’d worked out what she was doing. On paper, binge-drinking was a horrific idea but in practice, it gave her the respite needed for her to keep going for weeks at a time without complaint.

Laura approached cautiously. “You have to confront it,” she persisted. “The more you ignore it, the worse it will get. You’re a police officer, Jean, you _know_ that.”

Jean backed away from Laura. She didn’t want this. She wanted to be left to cope alone, to keep everyone else out of it. Why hadn’t Robbie just let her leave? Why did he have to send her a babysitter? There was no need for it. She didn’t need anyone watching her, or trying to care for her – especially not a pathologist who kept asking questions Jean could not possibly answer with any shred of truth. Every attempt of Laura’s to drag out the truth only made the knot in Jean’s stomach tighten until it felt like she had just been kicked black and blue.

Her stomach contracted; Jean feared she might throw up, but quickly realised her throat was so tight nothing would come up anyway. The way the room now moved around her had little to do with drink. The wrenching of her stomach moved to her diaphragm and her lungs; breathing was like trying to make water flow through a twisted hose pipe.

How could one question have done this to her? Or was it that Laura had made a point of letting Jean know she knew the explanation for her injury was a lie? There was no way out of it. No way around it. And yet, Jean couldn’t go through it. There was no option for flight and she didn’t have it in her to fight.

Laura’s hands fell onto Jean’s arms, but Jean threw her off. “Leave me alone,” she gasped out for a fifth time.

“Calm down,” Laura urged her. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, alright? I just have to ask the question.”

Like James. James had said the same thing – that he _had_ to ask the question.

And the sensation that she was cornered took over, because she knew that even if they didn’t expect an answer, they would not stop asking until they got one. They were detectives by nature; they weren’t capable of leaving it alone. It was her own fault, for being so careless, and for allowing drink to persuade her to reach out for comfort she had not earned.

A door opened and, when Jean tore her gaze from the kitchen counter over which she had leaned, she saw Robbie and James walk into the flat. Robbie looked at Jean and then at Laura with an expression of horror. God, did she really look that bad? “What the hell happened?” he asked, throwing down his keys and crossing the room to Jean; she stepped back from him.

“I asked her where her back was hurting,” Laura said, “and she made up some excuse, so I told her I didn’t ask her to explain it away – I asked her where it hurts. And she panicked. I tried to calm her down, Robbie, but I just made it worse!”

Her first priority had to be to regain some control over her breathing, and to loosen the knot in her stomach. But the knot only grew tighter, and she pressed her hands to her abdomen out of sheer instinct, like the action might undo it all.

There was nothing that could release it.

James pushed past Robbie and Laura, who looked completely lost. He gripped Jean by the forearms and when she struggled away, he only pulled her closer. “Ma’am!” he said loudly. “Look at me, ma’am!”

She was staring at his chest, so much was the height difference between them. “I’m fine,” she choked out. “It’s just the drink. And this-this case, this week, it’s been hard on us all.”

“No, it’s not the drink!” James answered back. His reply forced her to look up at his face. Whatever she had expected to find there – disgust, pity, anger – simply did not exist. She found worry, and concern, and compassion, and a truthful care for her. “And it’s not the case! It’s the abuse! We know, ma’am. We’ve worked it out.”

Someone had said it. He had said it for her. Had he known she could not be the first one to say it?

“You don’t understand,” she said. “You can’t understand.”

“This,” he said, shaking her arms firmly, “this is a build up of everything, ma’am. You need to let it out or you’ll never stop drinking, and _this_ will never stop. You’ve bottled it up for too long, and the thought of it coming out scares you half to death, but it _must_ come out.”

Her breathless gasps for air transformed themselves into broken sobs. How had he known? How had he known that she was so terrified of it all being out in the open?

Exhausted, her legs gave up trying to hold her weight; she felt James’ arms catch her and hold her close.

Defeated, she allowed herself to put her arms around his shoulders and let him hold her up, and she cried.

It wasn’t the same as the silent tears she had let escape her in her office. It all poured out of her, the fear, and the pain, and the betrayal, and the knowledge that the man who had stood up all those years ago and promised to love her and protect her from harm was doing precisely the opposite of what he vowed to do. She drowned under the weight of it.

This woman who barely stood, whose breath echoed in her chest, whose whole body shook…she was not someone anyone in this room knew. She was the woman who hid inside Chief Superintendent Innocent, hidden from the rest of the world. But Jean Innocent knew her. Jean Innocent spent her days keeping this woman shielded from sight. Jean Innocent spent her nights taking blows for this woman. And every so often, Jean Innocent got drunk to try and soothe this woman’s wounds.

She felt James’ face buried into the crook of her neck and realised with a shot of appreciation that he was not just holding her up while she broke – he _wanted_ to comfort her. He was bending to her neck to give her some kind of affection, and that, from James, was a monumental concession. His hand ran through her hair, and she wished it wouldn’t; to receive such kindness from James Hathaway only added more emotion to the pool that drowned her, and any emotion that passed through her in this moment came out in tears and harsh, torn sobs.

James’ head moved upwards slightly to her ear. He hushed her quietly and kissed her cheek, his own guard on the floor next to hers. Something about this had broken down the wall he built around him. Or was it more something about _her_?

It seemed to take hours for her to calm down. Perhaps it did. Perhaps James Hathaway stood there holding her for hours. But eventually she stood still in his arms, drained but no longer crying. Jean wondered for a moment if it was only the fact she was so drained that kept her from crying.

James took her hand and guided her to Robbie’s sofa, and Laura handed her a cup of tea. The four of them sat in silence for a few minutes, Jean trying to gather herself together enough to make a decision about what to say and what to do. They knew. They already knew. Was there any point in lying to them? They wouldn’t believe her if she did.

But she was too tired. She was too exhausted to start talking about these things. She thought the effort of it might kill her. “Where do you want to sleep tonight?” Robbie asked. “You can stay here, if you want. Laura’s brought over some clothes for you to borrow.”

“You don’t have to-”

“Like any one of us would let you out of our sight right now,” scoffed Robbie. “You’re not infallible, ma’am. Nobody expects you to be, either. You’re stayin’ with one of us, anyway.”

Jean almost looked at James. For whatever reason, it was with him she felt safest. But he had handled enough of her tonight, and she was sure the last thing he wanted was to traipse home with her in tow again. So she sighed and gave a curt nod. “Then, as I’m being given very little in the way of choice, I’ll stay with you, Robbie. But just for one night. I do have to go home at some point.”

“That’s a discussion for another day,” James said. “For now, ma’am, you need to rest. We can talk about how bad an idea going home is tomorrow.”


	5. Chapter 5

James Hathaway sat down at his desk, coffee in hand, absolutely exhausted. He had spent the night looking on letting websites for flats in Oxford, noting down the most attractive, convenient and affordable homes, so he could give Jean Innocent the details and phone numbers for estate agents and letting agents. Almost excited to tell her what he had found, he picked up the notebook – the same one in which Innocent had apologised the morning she snuck out of his flat – and flicked through it.

Robbie Lewis walked into the office, looking rather tired himself. It had been a stressful night. “That woman’s bloody impossible,” he complained. “Honestly. Woke up this mornin’ and she was gone. Left this.” He passed over a sheet of paper, torn from a notepad. It read: _Thanks for everything. Sorry for being a nuisance. See you at work._

“She did the same when she stayed at mine,” James said. “Gone before I woke up.”

“Bloody nightmare, she is,” grumbled Robbie. “Just passed her on the stairs, and she’s actin’ like last night never happened!”

James knew Robbie wasn’t angry with Innocent, but he felt the same frustration; a woman so intelligent, and so bright, and so capable, too stubborn to accept that people who – for better or for worse – had ended up her friends very much would have liked to help her. “Do you think she’ll listen if we talk to her about it?” asked James.

Robbie pulled a face. “I dunno. I don’t think she’d listen to me. Might listen to you, though.”

James shot his inspector a questioning look. “Me, sir?”

“Yeah,” replied Robbie. “You got somewhere with her last night. Laura tried for ages to get her out of whatever mess that was.”

“Looked like a panic attack to me, sir,” James sighed into his coffee. “Probably caused by an overload of emotion and a crippling fear that it was all going to come out and we would know what was going on in her head.” He felt Robbie’s eyes pierce his skin and decided not to meet his gaze. Instead, he continued to flip aimlessly through his notebook. “God, I dread to think what happened when she rocked up home this morning, hungover and probably smelling of my aftershave.”

“With any luck, Mr. Innocent,” Robbie said with obvious distaste, “was still asleep.” He sat behind his own desk and took a sip of coffee. “What I wouldn’t give to thump that man.”

“Now now, sir,” James replied. “We see it all the time. Toxic relationships. Domestic violence.”

Robbie scoffed at James’ answer. “It’s different when it’s your chief super on the receivin’ end,” he said brutally. “When it’s somebody you know. If anybody did that to my Lyn, I’d have his head on a stick, man!”

“I don’t think Chief Superintendent Innocent would thank us if we impaled her husband’s head with a stick, sir.”

“That’s not what I’m gettin’ at, and you know it,” accused Robbie. “I’m sayin’ objectivity goes out the window when it’s someone you know. Don’t tell me you don’t want to see him get his comeuppance, James.”

James refrained from sharing his opinion of that man. He didn’t think he wanted Lewis to know just the level of hatred James had managed to develop for a man he had never even met. Embarrassed enough by his own display of affection for Jean Innocent last night, he didn’t really want to be interrogated about it, as he surely would be if he let his feelings about her husband be known. Really, he had shocked himself when he forced himself past Laura and Robbie to do whatever he could to help her. Whatever he had expected of himself, it wasn’t that.

He recalled the way in which she had relinquished her fragile grapple for control; not only had she actually permitted him to hold her, but she had held herself to him for stability and, he suspected, comfort. But he had gone one step too far in trying to comfort her: he had kissed her cheek. Desperate as he had been to let her know she was worth no less for her emotions, he had quietly, surreptitiously, kissed Innocent’s cheek in such a way that Robbie and Laura could never have known what he had done. James didn’t know what possessed him to break down that barrier between them. Indeed, he wasn’t entirely sure whether she would forgive him for it. It was self-indulgent and improper, and he knew he shouldn’t have done it.

* * *

 

Jean Innocent opened her pill bottle and took two painkillers, trying to force down the headache she could feel wrapping around her head like tight elastic. She never had done very well with hangovers, even as a young woman, in her university days. It was one of the few deterrents against drunken recklessness she had.

There was a knock at her door, and it travelled through her skull and seemed to thump against her brain. “Come!” she called. She almost groaned when James Hathaway walked in, but she held it back for fear of offending him. “What is it, sergeant?”

He approached slowly, a notebook in one hand and a bottle of Lucozade in the other. “For the hangover,” he said, placing the bottle onto her desk.

She glared at him but did not attempt to deny that she was hungover. It would have been a futile exercise, and a waste of energy she simply did not have. “Thank you,” she said rigidly. What on Earth was he doing, trying to look after her? He had seen for himself that her problem was self-inflicted; nobody had held a gun to her head and poured the whisky down her throat.

“I’ve done some research,” James began, opening his notebook, “and there are a number of flats within commuting distance of the station. I’ve listed their addresses and relevant contact details for estate agents for you.”

Jean raised an eyebrow at the sergeant. “And why in God’s name would I need such information?”

That stopped him in his tracks. She didn’t quite know what he thought he was going to achieve here, but she had just shot it all down in one question. His expression turned to one of confusion and, though it did nothing to comfort her, concern. “Ma’am, last night, you were so upset you went into an emotional overload. I would’ve thought you’d seize the opportunity to get out of that situation.”

“What situation would that be, Sergeant Hathaway?”

He leaned over her desk, looking more intense than she had ever seen him before. “You all but told me you’re in an abusive relationship, ma’am.”

Jean held his gaze for the shortest of moments, breaking it when she realised she had caused this man to _care_ about her. How could she have allowed that to happen? It was unfair on him, and an added pressure on an already busy and stressed sergeant. She got to her feet and turned her back on him, and film cuts of being held in his arms came back to her, flashing through her mind like a tape on an old projector. It had been James’ arms that had been her support last night. And he had not only held her up – he had practically cuddled her. Involuntarily, her fingers touched her cheek, where his lips had kissed her skin as he tried to soothe her pain. It dawned on her that he had taken a bulldozer to the wall between them last night, and that he had done so _for her_. This man, whose greatest asset and greatest curse was to hold his feelings back, had let her get under his skin, if just for the duration of their embrace.

When his hand fell onto her shoulder, she reacted impulsively, and wished she hadn’t. Jean turned and threw James’ hand away. She couldn’t bear the look on his face, but she could not stop her reactions to being touched without warning, and without her being able to see it coming. “Sorry,” she muttered. “That was…it was just-”

“Instinct,” he finished for her. Jean couldn’t bring herself to explain it further. It would only be breaking open a box of horrors she could not possibly hope to look through while she had her wits about her. “Have you eaten today?” he asked.

She opened her mouth, surprised by the question. “What?” she finally said, unable to comprehend why he would even think to ask that.

“It’s a simple question, ma’am,” James said. “Have you had anything to eat today?”

Was there any point in lying to him? Would he believe her if she said she’d had breakfast and was just about to get lunch? No. If she had learned anything in the past month, it was that James Hathaway always knew when she was lying to him. “I haven’t had time,” she said. It was still a lie – she could have nipped out for a sandwich at any point – but it wasn’t one as barefaced as the one she had first thought of telling.

“Nor have I, ma’am,” he said. There was a hint of a smile on his lips. “Why don’t we go out and get something for lunch? We’re both entitled for a lunch break, after all.” This just kept getting weirder. Why was he inviting her out for lunch? Acting like he was her friend? “Please, ma’am. I’d like to know you’ve got at least one square meal inside you.”

“No,” Jean answered. “No, I have things to do, sergeant. But thank you for the offer.”

James sighed. It was a strange moment of silence, in which Jean realised just how self-conscious James Hathaway was. He wasn’t just here for her. He was here for himself, too, because he was as mortified by his actions last night as she was by her own. Of course he was – self-restraint was his bread and butter, and he had broken that in embracing her, in kissing her cheek, in hushing her until she was quiet. But she didn’t quite know what it was he needed from her. Validation? Approval? Or was it forgiveness?

For the sake of James Hathaway, she allowed him the tiniest of smiles, and she gently pulled down his head and kissed his cheek. When she pulled back from him, he looked down at her uncertainly, red-faced and embarrassed. “What was that for, ma’am?”

“For being a good man,” she answered him. It was the first honest thing she had said since he had walked through that door.

James’ face went a deeper shade of red. It was almost amusing, that flustered look about him. “Thank you, ma’am.”

The relief in his face was plain; whatever worries he’d had when he came to visit her, they’d been alleviated by one act of kindness on her part. That one reassurance that she was not disgusted by his capacity for compassion or angry at him for stepping over a line they both drew caused James’ body to visibly relax, and the tense frown to lift from his face. It was important to her, to know he was alright. He was out of his depth, and he just kept swimming further out to sea in some mad attempt to help her. It was her responsibility to make sure that if she couldn’t stop him caring, she at least prevented that compulsion to care from doing him harm.

He gave a single nod and walked away, leaving her alone in her office. Jean let out a long breath. That had been more effort than she would have liked. Some small part of her wanted to let him in, but she could not do that. To let him in would be to acknowledge what he was saying was true, and the sadness of that just might kill her. It was excruciating enough under the anaesthesia of alcohol; sober, she didn’t think she could survive it.

She sat back down at her desk and forced herself to set about her paperwork. The only surrender she allowed herself was to open the bottle of Lucozade and let James’ gift of glucose give her the blood sugar required to fight off her hangover.

James returned twenty minutes later, and this time when he knocked, he did not wait to be beckoned into the office. He stepped around her desk, closed the file she had been reading and took it away, replacing it with a cheese toastie and a mug filled with tomato soup. Jean stared up at him, astounded by his relentlessness. “Eat, ma’am,” he said; his lips turned upwards into that tiny smile Jean so often mistook for smugness.

Today, it wasn’t smugness. It was kindness. It was kindness of the magnitude Jean Innocent did not feel worthy of receiving. But James had offered it up regardless, and left her to try and figure out what she could possibly have done to earn it.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Laura Hobson left the police station just after six o’clock, having handed in a post-mortem report. She was tired – a body had been found caught in reeds in the river, and she had been up until well after midnight with Robbie, James and Jean last night. She was looking forward to a glass of wine and something quick and full of carbs for dinner.

But on her way past, something caught her attention. Jean Innocent was sitting forwards with her forehead against her steering wheel. Worried, Laura went and opened the driver’s side door. “Jean?” she asked carefully. “Are you okay?”

“I’ve killed my car battery,” groaned Jean. “I must have left the headlights or the radio on this morning. And I need to get home.”

Laura sighed and stroked Jean’s head; she startled at the touch, but did not lift her head from the steering wheel. The poor woman was obviously exhausted. “Come on,” she said. “I’ll take you home. I’ll get Robbie to take his jump leads in tomorrow.”

Jean slowly got out of her car and retrieved her handbag. “Thanks,” she mumbled. The tiredness was written all over her face, in the pallor of her skin and the black marks beneath her eyes. “Should’ve paid more attention.”

“We all do something like that, somewhere down the line,” Laura reminded Jean. She really was hard on herself. “God, if I told you all the the silly things I’ve done when I was tired, we’d be here until next year.”

Their silence as Laura drove was broken only by Jean giving her directions. When they stopped outside Jean’s home, there was no car in the drive. Her husband clearly hadn’t returned from work yet. There was no mistaking the relief in Jean’s face. “Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee?” Jean asked, her tone unfailingly polite.

Though Laura suspected Jean didn’t really want her to come in, she said, “Yeah, okay.”

Once inside, Jean took off her coat and dumped her handbag on the kitchen table; she switched the kettle on, turned the radio on to split the silence, and set about taking vegetables from the fridge, clearly feeling some urgency about making dinner. So Laura made the coffee, and asked what she could do to help. Jean, however, was undertaking the unenviable task of finely chopping onions, and by the tears that poured down her face, they were stinging her eyes like the Devil himself. Laura laughed and gave Jean some kitchen paper to wipe her face.

“Bloody onions,” muttered Jean. “I’d get the same effect pouring hydrochloric acid into my eyes.”

She handed Laura a green pepper and a knife, and went to get chicken breasts out of the fridge. Together, they quietly chopped vegetables and meat, their silence companionable.

The front door opened and closed, and a man’s voice called, “For God’s sake, Jean, will you turn that crap off? It sounds like a cat being tortured with an untuned guitar!” Laura looked at Jean, who closed her eyes for just a second; she turned around and switched the radio off. A set of keys fell onto the kitchen table, and a pair of feet headed for the fridge. “I thought I asked you to stop for a six pack on the way home?”

Laura turned around, knife still in hand. “That would be my fault, I’m afraid,” she said coldly. “Jean’s car broke down and I drove her home.”

He turned to face her. “And you are?”

“Laura Hobson. Pathologist.”

Next to her, Jean spun on her heel. “This is my husband, Thomas,” she said. Laura made no attempt to shake Thomas’ hand; she already had taken a dislike to him.

Thomas gave a smile that bordered on a sneer. “What happened to the car?”

“Oh, I left the lights on this morning,” Jean said casually, with the air of someone trying to downplay the news they were delivering. “The battery went flat. Laura offered me a lift. I’ll get it sorted tomorrow.”

“Jeannie the Genius strikes again,” Thomas snorted. “You really aren’t pretty enough to pull off being so stupid,” he declared, pouring a glass of wine for himself. “See, this is why nobody can put up with you. Not only do you have a face that looks like it’s been used as a doorstop for the last twenty years, but if stupidity were painful, you’d need a morphine drip just to get through the day. When I look into your eyes, Jean, I swear I can see the back of your head.”

Laura was horrified. How could he talk to his wife like that? “It’s fine,” she tried to pacify him. “I’ll get Robbie to jump start the car in the morning.”

Thomas seemed to ignore Laura, caught up as he was with his own irritation with Jean. “Honestly, I’d slap some sense into you, but you’d only arrest me for animal abuse,” he said into his wine glass. Jean said nothing. She distracted herself with finding a frying pan in the cupboard.

That did it. That snapped Laura’s patience. “Hey! It was a simple mistake! There’s no need to insult her.”

Thomas laughed, crossing the kitchen and opening Jean’s handbag. “I’m not insulting you, am I, Jean?” he asked. “Just describing you, that’s all.” Speechless, Laura watched as he took a ten pound note from Jean’s purse, picked up his keys, and looked over his wife’s shoulder as she started to coat the slices of chicken breast in seasoning. “I’m not eating that.”

“Thomas,” Jean sighed wearily, “it’s chicken fajitas. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

“Didn’t say there was. I’m just not in the mood for eating it.”

Jean set the chicken firmly back down onto the chopping board; her temper was fraying, that much was obvious to Laura. “Then what _do_ you want for dinner?”

Thomas shrugged. “I don’t know. Just not that. Make it if you like, but I won’t eat it.” He bent down, turned Jean’s head and kissed her. Laura caught the way she flinched as Thomas’ hand moved towards her face. “I’m going out for the beer you forgot about.”

When he left the house, Laura realised she’d been holding her breath, and released it slowly. Jean looked up from the kitchen counter, her expression apologetic. “I’m sorry,” she said.

Laura fixed her with a look of disbelief. “ _You’re_ sorry?”

“He’s just tired,” Jean said, “and I went and forgot to stop for beer.”

“Jean…” Laura began. She didn’t quite know what to say. This wasn’t something she ever thought she would encounter: Jean Innocent was taking the blame for her husband’s incredibly unpalatable behaviour. Laura knew Thomas was the only person Jean would assume responsibility for like this, and even after mere minutes in their company, she could see just how that had come to be the case. From start to finish, Thomas’ side of the conversation had been an assault on Jean’s self-worth. Not to mention that he had helped himself from her purse, and had told her he wouldn’t eat what she was cooking, but gave her no indication of what he actually wanted for dinner.

Though she knew Thomas was violent, Laura had not prepared herself for just how awful a man he really was. It ruled out the notion that when he physically harmed Jean, it was in isolated fits of rage; he seemed hell bent on demeaning, controlling and confusing his wife. He was keeping her uncertain and insecure, and Laura was bloody sure he did it deliberately.

“You should probably get home, Laura,” Jean said tonelessly, in the process of putting the ingredients they had prepared into plastic boxes. Laura sighed. She did not want to leave Jean, but she didn’t have a lot of choice. “Honestly, it’s fine,” she smiled as she took a bag of pasta out of the cupboard.

Laura put her arms around Jean and hugged her tight. “If you need anything, Jean, _call us_.”

* * *

 

Jean Innocent sat in front of the television, staring aimlessly into the screen; she had been so embarrassed by Thomas’ behaviour earlier that she wasn’t sure how or even if she would be able to face Laura the next time they met. She almost texted Laura to ask her not to tell Robbie or James – especially James – about it, but by the time she thought to do it, she was resigned to the idea Laura had probably already told at least Robbie.

Besides, she wanted them to think she was in control of her marriage, and to ask Laura not to say anything about it would only scream that she wasn’t in control at all.

“Why did you take her into the house?” Thomas asked out of the blue.

Jean looked over at him and frowned slightly. “She was kind to me, so I offered her a cup of coffee,” replied Jean. To her, it was the simplest of transactions. To Thomas, though…well, Jean didn’t quite know how his mind processed it. He didn’t think like she did.

“Where were you last night?” he asked.

“Oh, we were finishing the paperwork on that case,” Jean said airily. “We wanted it to be watertight before we submitted everything to the CPS. Lewis, Hathaway, Hobson, we were all there until well after midnight. Fell asleep in my office, I was so tired.”

She should not have lied to her husband. She knew that. But if he were to know she had stayed over at Robbie Lewis’ flat, there would be no end to his jealousy-driven interrogations. “What case?”

“The boy who was found in his mother’s attic,” Jean said. “She confessed.”

“Oh,” Thomas said. Jean couldn’t draw any information from his tone. She hated it when his voice didn’t give away his mood; she liked to be able to predict his reactions. “Your friend…Laura?”

“Laura,” confirmed Jean carefully.

“She doesn’t like me, does she?” Thomas asked.

Jean pinched the bridge of her nose. “Well, Tom, you didn’t make the ideal first impression,” she said. “Which part of the conversation do you think would have endeared yourself to her? ‘Jeannie the Genius’, the morphine drip analogy, or the not-so-subtle way in which you called me an animal?”

She shouldn’t have gone there. Of course she shouldn’t have – it was like poking a hibernating bear with a pointy stick. “Oh, so it’s _my_ fault?” he asked sharply.

Jean didn’t answer him. She was too tired to lie anymore, but the truth would only anger him. Thomas never was one to understand that not everyone found his wise cracks amusing, and that there were some people who would label those wise cracks as bullying or abuse. She had tried to explain that to him several times before – that just because she let him speak his mind in such a colourful way, that didn’t mean everyone would approve.

She got up and went to the bathroom, deciding she was going to run herself a bath and try to forget the last two days ever happened. She dug out the glass bottle of bubble bath her son had given her for her birthday and poured it under the tap. It gave the water a rather pretty golden, glittery sheen, and smelled a bit like honey. Bath filled, Jean undressed and stepped in. She didn’t lock the door; she knew how he hated that.

The hot water soothed the bruises on her lower back, and stung the grazes on her knees. It was with a great deal of shame that she lightly pressed the finger marks around her biceps, judging how badly she was bruised by the depth of the pain her own touch caused her. Funnily, though, there were no marks where James Hathaway had put his hands on her forearms last night, and he had been quite firm in his grip. But it had been done with the intent to heal, not the intent to harm – Jean understood that even though his grasp was strong, James did not dig his fingers in with any viciousness, and therefore had not left a physical mark upon her body.

She leaned backwards, her shoulder blades bruised and sore as they touched the cold enamel of the bath. Her back had slammed against one too many walls.

Jean jumped halfway out of her skin when the bathroom door opened. Thomas walked in, and sat down on the floor next to the bath. She watched him, unable to say for certain why he was there with her. “Don’t bring any of your stuck-up friends into this house again,” he said. Though his voice was quiet, Jean did not miss the threat in his tone. “You embarrassed me.”

She bit back the retort that he had done that perfectly ably himself.

Thomas got onto his knees and turned the tap left. Jean realised suddenly what he was going to do and tried to get up, but his hand pushed her down, her chest trapped between the back of the bath and the heel of her husband’s hand. “Thomas,” she breathed out. The water around her was gaining heat rapidly, causing her skin to prickle in protest. “You’re going to burn me!” she shouted. She struggled against him, but he was far stronger than she was, not least because he was nearly twice the size of her.

The heat began to rise, and it stung her legs and feet. Her heart started to race, both with the rise in body temperature and the panic that Thomas was about to do some real damage to her body.

But he turned the tap off before the water reached a scalding temperature, still holding her down by the chest. “Learn your lessons,” he hissed at her. She held his gaze, the water still far too hot against her skin.

 _Don’t let him see_ , she reminded herself. _Don’t let him see how much it hurts_.


	7. Chapter 7

For the first time in a long time – probably years – Jean Innocent walked into the police station in trousers and light, flat ballerina-style shoes made from fabric rather than plastic or leather. She had tried heels this morning, but the soles of her feet were too painful for her to stomach the idea of wearing high heels all day. Though the scalds were minor, and not caused by acute exposure to boiling water, they were very sore. Her skin was angry and red, and too sore to touch. The last thing she needed was tights clinging to her burned skin, and she did not want anyone to see the redness of her skin or the small blisters that had appeared. Her solution had been wide legged trousers, that covered the bridge of her foot, where her flat shoes left her exposed.

It wasn’t that the water had been at boiling point, but that she had been forced to remain in it for far too long. It had burned her, just as she had warned it would, particularly on her feet and lower legs, which had been closest to the tap.

James Hathaway joined her as she started to climb the stairs, and on the landing, he looked down at her. “Is it just me, ma’am, or have you shrunk about four inches overnight?” he asked her.

She smiled and answered, “Disconcerted to see your boss at her true height?”

“A little,” he admitted. It probably didn’t help that he was about ten inches taller than her when she wasn’t propped up by extremely uncomfortable shoes. “But it suits you.” Jean raised her eyebrows in surprise, leaving Hathaway looking like he wished he’d kept his opinion to himself. In spite of everything else going on in her head, and the physical pain she was in, it raised a sincere smile from her.

Robbie Lewis came up the stairs behind Hathaway, and took a similar reaction when he went to speak to her at the height to which he was accustomed, only to find her face about four inches lower than usual. “Ma’am, Dr. Hobson just called,” he said. “Jenny Wells _did_ drown, but she was poisoned first.”

“With what?”

“Methanol.”

“What, methylated spirits?” Jean asked. That was not the turn she had been expecting.

“Maybe. But she _was_ a chemistry student.”

Jean sighed. “Okay, well, I’ll put in a call and get someone to check what they have in their storerooms against what they _should_ have, see if anything’s missing. While you’re over there, get a list of people who have access to the stores.”

“Thanks, ma’am.”

The proceeded with their journey up the stairs. Jean was just waiting for one of them to ask why the sudden change in dress sense, for she knew at least James was thinking it, but neither one asked. And if Laura Hobson had told them about what she’d observed of Thomas Innocent, neither one regarded Jean any differently for it, at least on the surface. It was a small relief in the midst of a thousand anxieties.

When Robbie did speak again, it was in order to be helpful. “Oh, I’ve got me jump leads in the boot of me car. Just gimme a shout when you want to start your car up.”

“Thanks, Robbie,” she smiled at him. She had to keep smiling. There could be no question of them knowing it took all her energy not to let it show that every step she took hurt. But more than that, she could not give them the opportunity to bring up the subject of whatever Laura may or may not have told them about Jean’s marriage. She was too tired, too sore and too drained to be able to hear it, much less deny it. They wouldn’t believe her, anyway, would they?

Jean left them to it, but as she turned, she could have sworn James looked at her feet. Whichever way she moved, the hem of her trouser leg fell back against her leg and exposed her left foot. She quickly kicked it forward over her foot, but in that half a second, Jean definitely saw Hathaway’s eyes move to her feet. Whether it was because he had noticed the redness of her skin or because she had made a deliberate movement, she could not tell, but she did know James well enough to realise he would read _something_ into whatever he saw.

She didn’t give him the chance to pass comment; instead, she smiled and walked away.

When she got into her office, she sat down at her desk and pulled off her shoes; she had to lift her feet off the floor, for the pressure on her skin was too painful to sustain. It looked like she was going to have to spent a lot of time sitting down today.

For the second day in a row, James Hathaway showed up around one o’clock. This time, he did not ask if she had eaten. He simply placed a cup of tea, a sandwich and a packet of crisps down in front of her. Part of her wanted to challenge him, but really, she was moved by his kindness. He seemed to have realised she was not eating of her own accord, aside from dinner with her husband. “You don’t have to do this, sergeant,” she said gently. “I’ll be fine without a personal carer, you know.”

“Everyone needs somebody to care for them,” James said. “Even you, ma’am.” From his pocket, James produced a small tube of aloe vera gel. She looked away, with no real idea what to say. He _had_ noticed, then. “For your foot,” he informed her. “It looks painful.”

Slightly shamefaced, she took the tube of gel from him. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

“You know I have to ask, don’t you, ma’am?” he said. He sat on the edge of her desk; she looked up at him imperiously, hoping to deter him. “How did you burn your feet?”

“I spilled water out of the kettle when I was making a cup of tea.”

He knew she was lying. Of course he did. But the lie rolled off her tongue like she had been ready to tell it, even though she hadn’t known what she was going to say until she said it. She hoped the lack of premeditation would make it more believable. Still, James was not convinced, and she rather feared he had learned to know when she was lying. That really would be inconvenient.

Rather than address the blatant scepticism in James’ face, Jean took a sip of her tea. She was terribly aware that he was watching her yet again, and could see him internally tie himself in knots as he tried to decide what he could do. She wished he wouldn’t. More than anything, Jean wanted James to stop thinking about her. It was not his responsibility to worry about her or care for her, or to feed her and provide her with topical pain relief. And yet, she couldn’t have treasured him more for it. Even if she would rather, purely for his sake, he had not put himself forward, and even if she didn’t quite understand what he saw in her that was worth caring about, she wasn’t ungrateful. She knew she had to be thankful for the fact _somebody_ gave a damn.

“Ma’am,” James began, with caution that told Jean he was about to broach a difficult subject, “Laura Hobson told me about the things your husband said to you last night.”

“Oh, that’s just his sense of humour,” Jean brushed it off, and made a conscious effort to smile.

“It’s not funny.” Jean swallowed back the lump inexplicably forming in her throat, still smiling as brightly as she could. “‘I would slap some sense into you but you’d only arrest me for animal abuse.’ That’s not funny. That’s just plain cruel.”

Jean sighed. The only thing she could do was try and excuse Thomas’ behaviour, as she did when he offended her sister or her parents. “Thomas doesn’t think like you or me,” she said. “He makes cruel jokes because he grew up hearing cruel jokes; he was usually on the receiving end. He didn’t have the best upbringing.”

James’ face took on a sudden anger and when he spoke, Jean was sure he hadn’t thought his argument through. “A lot of people didn’t have great upbringings, ma’am, but they don’t abuse their wives. It’s not an excuse to destroy beautiful things. It’s never an excuse.”

 _Beautiful things_.

For the second time in as many days, James Hathaway’s face went a brilliant shade of red. If for nothing else than to distract him from his feelings on the subject of her husband, Jean raised an eyebrow at him and said, “Beautiful things?” He did not break her stare. “I think you should book yourself in for an eye exam, Sergeant Hathaway,” she laughed.

He got to his feet. Jean realised only now that something she had said had only served to upset him further. “No,” he said. “Don’t do that. Don’t put yourself down like that.”

“What?” she asked. “I was just making a joke.”

“No, ma’am, you were self-deprecating.” He came closer and glowered down at her. “It’s horrible. I know you might not think anything of it, but it’s symptomatic of mental and emotional abuse. Given that your husband told you last night you have a face that looks like it’s been used as a doorstop, that kind of remark worries me. It tells me you’ve internalised everything he’s told you about yourself, but it’s all _lies_!” he exclaimed. His voice was rising, betraying how infuriated he was by her.

Jean stood up and grasped his arm. “Calm down, sergeant!” she said to him, sure to keep smiling like he hadn’t just shocked her with the number of words he had put together in his revulsion at her sense of humour. “I’m sorry, alright?”

James shook his head, his expression one of frustration and disbelief. “You don’t understand, do you?” he asked tersely.

And he was right. Jean could not honestly say she understood what his problem was. She had apologised for upsetting him, but it clearly wasn’t what he had wanted her to do. Her lack of understanding seemed to be a source of irritation to James, but there was little she could do to remedy that, other than try and persuade him not to care as much.

But before Jean could open her mouth to tell him he needed to distance himself from her, James did something that just confused her more. His hand fell gently onto her face. She was so shocked that her body didn’t flinch as it normally did when someone put their hands on her. His thumb stroked her cheek, and he looked down at her like she was the most bewildering, beguiling thing on the planet. She could not even begin to understand it. “You are not stupid, or ugly, or useless, or any of the vile things he might have called you,” James asserted. His voice was barely audible, and yet deafening.

Astounded, Jean reached up and put her hand on Hathaway’s wrist. He seemed to come back to himself with a fresh flush of embarrassment. In a gesture of reassurance, she briefly held his hand in hers before she let it go and it fell to his side.

There was a knock at the door, and Jean stepped back from James but did not sever their gaze. “Come in,” she said once she was safely behind her desk. She tore her eyes away from James to find Robbie Lewis at her door.

“Sorry, ma’am, but I’m afraid I need to steal my sergeant back,” he said. “Another body. Louisa Blackman.”

“Jenny Wells’ friend?” Jean asked.

“Yeah. Apparently, she’s jumped from her room window,” sighed Robbie. “Dr. Hobson’s already there.”

James said obediently, “Coming, sir,” and turned around, leaving the room without another word.

Alone in her office once more, Jean stared down at the meal James Hathaway had brought her. It was all wrong. The man was tormenting himself over her, and for what? She wasn’t worth his effort or his kindness. None of it was sensible. There was a reason Jean’s head ruled her heart – it avoided situations like these. If she thought rather than feeling, she could prevent herself from vulnerability and the consequences of that; all too often the outcome of a person’s vulnerability was another’s emotional reaction, and she didn’t want James to get emotional over her. He had come dangerously close to it just then.

Chief Superintendent Innocent allowed herself to eat the food James had brought her, partly just so she wasn’t wasting food. But she put the tube of aloe vera gel in her desk drawer out of sight, and ignored its existence for the rest of the day. The pain reminded her that she was not permitted to bring others discomfort in order to soothe her own. She could not allow James Hathaway aboard this sinking ship – if Jean Innocent was going to drown, she had to drown alone.


	8. Chapter 8

Robbie Lewis watched his commanding officer intently. After they had jump started her car, they had driven down to the pub via the outskirts of Oxford to give the alternator a chance to charge the battery. Innocent seemed to be in good spirits. Indeed, by the time James and Laura arrived, Innocent was half cut and very much the life and soul of their tiny party. Robbie was hard pushed to tell if it was an act or if she was actually happy. He couldn’t really see how she _could_ be happy, after what Laura had told him last night.

It occurred to Robbie that Innocent being the life and soul of any party was not at all like her. She was normally dignified, sophisticated and polite in social situations, though it made her no less authoritative or charming. But at nine that night, she had pulled Laura up and started doing some daft dance with her beside the table, to some song from the eighties as they revisited their misguided university days.

Robbie exchanged a glance with James; whatever his sergeant had discussed with Innocent earlier, he had not divulged. However, Robbie had sensed James’ frustration the entire afternoon. The two hadn’t fallen out, but something had been said or done that James wasn’t all too happy with. They continued to be perfectly polite to one another, but Robbie heard a whole layer to it he’d never heard before.

Innocent sat back down and threw her arm around James’ shoulder, leaving him looking awkward and – Robbie couldn’t help but find James’ expression hilarious – a little frightened. “Who wants another drink?” she smiled.

Robbie looked at Laura, who was clearly thinking the same as him – was this the sight of Jean Innocent going off the rails? Because it certainly wasn’t bloody normal.

With Innocent up at the bar, Laura was the first to express her opinion. “Christ,” she exhaled slowly. “I’ve never seen her with so much _energy_.”

“It’s a front. And I daresay she’s using alcohol as a substitute for ibuprofen,” muttered James. Robbie frowned at him. “Didn’t you see her feet?”

“What about them?” Laura asked sharply.

“They’re scalded. She said she spilled water from the kettle onto herself, but I’m not convinced.”

That was enough for Robbie. Angry on Innocent’s behalf, he stood up and headed to the bar, where he found Innocent wearing her most enchanting smile, chatting away to the barman. He was careful to approach from an angle that allowed her to see him coming – he did not want to scare her – and he sat down on the bar stool next to her. She smiled at him, her eyes sparkling with more than just intoxication. “Ma’am, have you got a moment?” he asked her.

“Well, I have as long as it takes this lovely man to get our drinks,” she allowed.

“How did you hurt your feet?” he asked. There was no point in dancing around the subject. “And don’t spin the line about spillin’ the water out the kettle, either.”

“Sergeant Hathaway, I presume?” she asked coldly. The familiarity and concern Innocent had allowed the other night, while drunk beyond reason, was obviously no longer permitted. He didn’t dare call her by her first name, let alone call her ‘lass’ again; that form of comfort came as second nature to him, but he doubted it would be welcomed while Innocent was on the defensive like this.

“He’s worried for you,” he answered. “We all are, ma’am. None of us want to see you hurt. Believe it or not, we do care about you.”

It was the tiniest flash of vulnerability, the softening of her face. But as quickly as her face softened, her eyes hardened. “It was an accident,” she said. Her voice was empty, like she was resigned to the fact she would not be believed but had to say it anyway. “Nothing more. Your sergeant reads too deeply into things.”

She passed him his pint, downed her glass of wine and walked back to the table. He watched helplessly as she put her coat on and picked up her bag, bade James and Laura a good night and left the pub. Robbie tried to stop her, to follow her, but she was already striding down the street with no intention of coming back.

He returned to Laura and James and sat down with an inward groan. “Well,” Laura said, sipping her drink. “Whatever you said seems to have done the trick.”

Robbie glared at her. “All I said was we’re all worried about her! That we care about what happens to her!”

“And that’s the last thing she wants,” Laura said. “I’d bet a year’s salary that man’s got her so worn down she doesn’t think she’s worthy of anyone caring about her.”

“Nah,” Robbie said as he put his pint to his lips. “Innocent’s too strongminded for that.”

“You didn’t hear it,” Laura argued. “She _defended_ him. Said he was tired, that she’d forgotten to do something he’d asked her to.”

James, who had remained silent during Laura and Robbie’s debate, spoke. “She tried the same with me. She reckons he says cruel things because cruel things were said to him when he was young.”

“I hope you put her straight!” said Robbie.

“I told her it’s not an excuse,” James replied. From his somewhat guarded expression, Robbie gathered James had said a little more than that, but he didn’t press him on it. “But I’m starting to think he’s had a serious effect on her self-confidence. She made a comment about her physical appearance that just…didn’t sit right with me.”

Laura pulled a face. “He did call her ugly,” she sighed. “And she barely reacted to it, either.”

Robbie found he was angrier than he thought he could have been. Innocent was not a woman he would have, without evidence, have pegged for an abused wife; it was quickly becoming clear that underneath the costume of Chief Superintendent Innocent was a human being who’d endured so much abuse she now thought she was worth less than the average person. Laura seemed to notice, and touched his arm gently. He gave her a smile in thanks for her comfort, all the while fearing what was going to become of Jean Innocent.

* * *

 

Jean Innocent stumbled down the path into Port Meadow, the sky rapidly darkening above her. The air was cooling as she walked, trying to put everything out of her mind. She wished thy could see why she needed them to back off. It was like screaming at them in Arabic – they could hear her shrieks, but there was no hope of them understanding what they heard. She couldn’t scream it in English, because telling them outright would only worry them more. So she screamed in Arabic, and hoped they could loosely translate it into ‘I need you to leave me to deal with it alone.’

She drank deeply from the half bottle she had bought on her way across here, almost immune to the taste of it these days. For all she had hated the stuff from the moment she first tried it, it numbed the world around her like nothing else – until she exceeded her limit and the world became a source of overwhelming fear and anxiety once more. The flat lands around her allowed her to see much further than a street, where she was constantly blocked in by buildings. The world was vast, and beautiful, and a little terrifying.

On the path in front of her, she saw a young woman in her late teens heading in the opposite direction. She saw the confused look on that youthful face as she removed her earphones, and moved into the middle of the path. “Are you alright?” she asked. Jean focused her eyes on the girl. She had a kind face. “It’s a bit cold for drinking outside, isn’t it?”

“I’m fine, thanks,” Jean smiled. It was only as the cold air filled her lungs and her heart started to beat a little too fast that she realised she’d drank most of that half bottle already.

The young woman reached out and put a hand on Jean’s shoulder. “You’re not, are you?”

“Why do you care? I don’t know you,” Jean heard herself say.

“I like to think if you saw me like this, you’d stop me, too.” Before Jean could protest, she was being guided back along the path up which she had come, towards the city. “Is there anyone I can call for you?”

Hathaway. James. For some inexplicable reason, what she wanted more than anything else right now was James and all that was constant and wise about him. But she could not have that. It directly undermined her priority of keeping James Hathaway in the safety of being indifferent to her life. As she swallowed back the answer she most wanted to give, she left herself with only one option. “A taxi,” she said. “My car’s outside a pub in town, but I’m well over the limit now.”

So the girl called for a taxi to meet them at the nearest road access to the meadows, and stayed with her until it showed up. She didn’t pry, and she didn’t judge; she simply treated Jean with kindness and solidarity, and an understanding that all was wrong with her world. And though she did not particularly want to go home, she turned and thanked the girl before stepping into the taxi and telling the driver her address.

The journey was quiet, a silence broken only by music and the chatter of the driver’s radio. There was no attempt at small talk – perhaps the driver sensed she was in no fit state for holding a conversation. With every minute that passed, the fear in Jean grew. She wished that girl had simply walked past her. She would have found somewhere to sleep. And if it had proved to be too cold to sleep in one of the sheds or outhouses, Jean would have managed to get back to the station and would have slept in her office. But the stranger, with the best of intentions, had packed her off home. Her fear was growing arms and legs and, as the taxi stopped at the bottom of her driveway, she was already imagining what she would meet when she crossed the threshold of her house.

It took all the strength in her heart to pay her driver and open the front door. She was as quiet as her inebriation allowed, hoping against all hope that Thomas might have fallen asleep in front of the television.

She took off her shoes, thankful for the relief of her soles against the cool floor.

“The adventurer returns.”

Jean froze.

Thomas appeared in the doorway of the living room. “Where have you been? Killed the car again?”

“The car’s fine,” Jean said, taking off her coat. She was careful not to hit the bottle in her pocket off the wall when she hung it up. “I was having a drink with my team, that’s all.”

“You’re spending an awful lot of time with those two,” Thomas commented.

Jean, knowing this was heading into dangerous waters, decided to try and assure Thomas nothing untoward had happened with either of the two men. “Not just Lewis and Hathaway,” she replied, careful to use their surnames. “Laura, too.”

“That cow,” snorted Thomas. He still hadn’t forgiven Laura’s principles, then. “What did you get up to?” he asked. His tone was one of interest, but it was interest Jean knew was feigned. Her life didn’t intrigue him or give him any joy. All he wanted to know was what she had been doing and with whom. It was an accusation of cheating that went unsaid.

So she humoured him. “Just the pub,” she said.

“Your shoes are covered in mud.”

Jean looked down to find her flat, rather flimsy black shoes were indeed splattered with mud. “I went for a walk before I got a taxi home,” she said. “Port Meadow.”

“Why?”

“I needed to clear my head,” she answered him.

“And while you were clearing your head – not that there’s anything _in_ your head to clear – did it ever occur to you that you forgot something?” he asked. His tone was now dangerously conversational, the kind of informality that was just an act, a cover for something bubbling just under the surface. “Like, I don’t know, Caleb’s dinner party?”

Oh, God. That dinner party. Caleb, Thomas’ colleague and friend, had invited them to a dinner party. In the blizzard of everything else swirling in her mind, she had completely forgotten.

“You know, the dinner party to which I turned up alone,” he said. His voice was quiet. Seething. “Which, might I add, everyone found hilarious. Lots of ‘married to her job’ jokes.”

Her only chance was to play up to his opinion that she was a bit dense. “Was that tonight?!” she asked, in a tone she hoped to God was one of surprise. “God, I’m so sorry. What’s Caleb’s wife’s number? I’ll text her to apologise for my absence.”

But her back slammed against the wall, her air supply cut off.

“Do you know how bloody embarrassing that was?” he growled in her face. “And then I find out that you weren’t actually working like I thought you were? If you were working, I could almost understand it. But you were sitting in some pub, getting pissed with two intellectually defective policemen and a woman who cuts up the dead for a living!”

“Thomas!” Jean choked. She could not breathe, her airways forcibly closed by the large hand around her throat. The pressure in her head was rising; her face throbbed and her ears were attacked by a high-pitched squeal. He threw her to the floor, and she smacked her head off the bannister. When she reached up and touched her temple, she was horrified to find blood on her fingers. If nothing else, the blow sobered her up.

Thomas stalked past her. Halfway up the stairs, he declared angrily, “I’m going to bed!”


	9. Chapter 9

The Dettol stung, but it was what Jean Innocent’s mother always swore by for cleaning wounds. And it didn’t smell half as repugnant as TCP. It reminded her of childhood – scraped knees and grazed palms, bike pedals tearing the shins and hard playgrounds skinning the elbows. The only thing missing was her mother’s kiss on the cheek and the cup of blackcurrant squash.

“Bloody stupid man,” she muttered to herself, throwing the cotton wool, soaked in blood and Dettol, down into a bowl. She honestly believed Thomas didn’t understand the magnitude of what he had just done; she had been toeing a line changing her general appearance once to hide her injuries. How exactly did he expect her to hide the bloody great gash on her head and the bruise coming up on her throat without attracting many professionally trained eyes?

She winced as she pressed the butterfly strips across the cut. With the blood wiped away from the general wound site, it didn’t look quite as bad. Jean supposed she could just pull her hair over to that side in the morning. She didn’t dare put make up on it, for she didn’t want it infected; infection would only delay it healing, and she would be stuck with something to hide for even longer.

The sensible Jean Innocent cried out that she had just hit her head fairly hard, and therefore should probably go and get checked for a concussion. However, doctors – most of them – had enough common sense to add a knock to the head, bruising to the throat, a battered back and scalded feet and come up with the right answer about what had happened. Jean couldn’t allow that to happen. It was just an argument, and she had been the one to provoke it. How on Earth did she manage to forget that dinner party? It had been planned for weeks. There was no excuse for that. And, as Thomas had pointed out, her excuse was not work. She had been out drinking with her colleagues, not working. It only made her stupidity less defensible.

Jean threw the cotton wool and the packaging for the butterfly strips in the bin, washed the bowl and put all the first aid supplies back into the cupboard above the oven. As she looked upwards to slot the box back into its place, she noticed the pain that shot across her throat in protest at being strained.

There was nothing left to do but find a distraction. She walked barefoot through to the living room, trying to be as quiet as she could. It would not be a great idea to disturb the sleeping lion. She turned the television on and hastily turned down the volume. She could barely hear it, which meant Thomas would not be able to complain that it was too loud – he couldn’t possibly know it was on at all at this volume.

It was the news that appeared on the television. Apparently, the NHS in England was in financial trouble (again) and the police force was underfunded – like _she_ needed to be told that. There was a hurricane headed for Florida, and a report on the ongoing crisis in the mental health of children and young adults. Nothing Jean didn’t already know.

It wasn’t much of a distraction, to be told what she’d long known. So she changed the channel, to a rerun of _QI_ , and then to some American disaster film, then to a documentary about Henry the Eighth. Nothing held her attention for longer than ten minutes. Jean picked up a cushion and held it tight in front of her stomach, cuddling it like she cuddled her teddy bear as a very small girl. How odd it was, that Thomas could break her down until she was that child once more.

It was after midnight that she gave up and pulled the blanket off the back of the sofa and lay down. She would sleep here, for she did not want to risk going upstairs and waking Thomas; even if she headed to the spare room, she might make too much noise on the way up, and she didn’t want round two.

* * *

 

When she got to the police station in the morning – via the pub so she could pick up her car – Jean was a bit worse for wear. Her feet were still too sore to wear high heels, she had pulled her hair over the gash on her head, and wore a scarf she could not take off under any circumstances. All in all, it was in her best interests to hide from everyone who knew her. She was sure to arrive earlier than Lewis and Hathaway generally would, so as not to happen across them on the stairs. It was little short of a military operation.

However, it wasn’t long before the flaws in her plans for seclusion reared their heads. She was Chief Superintendent, and there was only so far she could delegate. Not to mention James managed to upset the university’s head of chemistry with the insinuation he had been sleeping with Jenny Wells prior to her death, for which she had berated him over the phone, even though she knew he was literally just down the corridor. The paranoia had set in, though, and she was terrified that they had figured out she was avoiding being in the same room as them.

When lunchtime came, that went out the window. James Hathaway’s offerings of food were becoming habitual and though it was kind and admirable, Jean wished he would stop it, not least because she didn’t even remotely deserve that kindness. He placed a bowl of pasta and a bottle of orange juice in front of her, moving away her work as he always did. “James,” Jean said wearily, “you’re being such a gentleman, but please stop this. I don’t need anybody to look after me.”

“Well, considering you’re not looking after yourself, ma’am-”

“I am not some snot-nosed teenager, Sergeant Hathaway!” snapped Jean. “I am your chief super, and I’d appreciate it if you’d refrain from treating me like I rank below you! You are my responsibility, not the other way around.”

James’ head tilted slightly as he eyed her not with the anger and resentment she had hoped, but with curiosity. That he could look at her this way after being both reprimanded over the phone and then treated with very little gratitude bothered Jean. It was sure to be more difficult than she had anticipated to keep him away. “Ma’am, rank doesn’t come into this,” he said. “You’re a human being having a tough time. It’s perfectly reasonable that I should want to try and lighten that load, even if it’s only making sure you eat. I’d do it for Inspector Lewis and for Dr. Hobson. Why shouldn’t I do it for you, ma’am?”

Floored momentarily by his sensible and logical answer, Jean scrambled for an argument. “You have enough to deal with, sergeant,” she said. “Focus on that.”

“Do you understand that you’re asking me to walk away from someone whose life is in turmoil?”

“You do that all the time, every time you finish with a case.”

“Yes, ma’am, after we’ve ensured everyone’s safety and given them justice!” James retorted. “Not when we know they’re still in the throes of the marriage from hell!”

Jean got to her feet and started to pace; James’ refusal to be blocked, his resistance to her barriers, tied her stomach in knots. He was not submitting to her rank as she had hoped and expected he would. Her hand rested over her stomach in an attempt to massage the knots loose. It was no good. “Hathaway, give it up. Leave it alone.”

He reached out and gently caught her by the hand; she stopped her pacing of the room. “Why? Why are you so determined to push us away?”

Heat rose through Jean’s body, her skin prickling as anxiety caused her skin to overheat like she was in a scalding hot bath once more. She desperately wanted to take off her scarf to cool down, but the knowledge she couldn’t possibly do that only added to her unease. How could she tell him that she did not feel deserving of his help or his kindness, when to tell him that would only concern him more?

She realised she’d not been paying full attention when his fingers brushed the hair that she had set over the corner of her head. Jean quickly slapped his hand away, not because she was fearful he would harm her, but because he could never know about the gash hidden underneath that section of her hair. He would only overreact.

“Did he hit you again?” asked James.

“No.”

It was the knee-jerk lie, the one that fell from her mouth without permission or effort. “You’re hiding something,” he accused gently. “You forget, ma’am, that we see you every day. We’re detectives, so we notice when you change your appearance or start shutting us out.”

Jean could not do this. She was about to spiral into a state of undiluted panic, and James Hathaway could not be allowed to see that ever again. She stalked across the room and opened the door, holding it. James shot her a challenging look, but desisted when she raised an eyebrow at him. “Ma’am,” he began, but Jean didn’t give him the opportunity to start up his appeal again.

“Thank you, Sergeant Hathaway,” Jean said.

She could tell he was reluctant, but he did leave.

Jean slammed the door behind him, drew the blinds and sat down on the sofa. Her chest felt like it might explode with the pressure behind her ribcage. The fear that Hathaway had seen her lies for what they were – which she knew he had, even if he didn’t know the truth – induced a kind of panic Jean had never experienced sober. All the walls she built to keep herself safe were rubble at her feet, and she was anything but safe. It wasn’t just Thomas. She was almost used to danger at his hands. It was physical danger and she was able to accept she could never escape that. She had her coping mechanism – to drink.

But this _thing_ with James Hathaway, that was unsafe. He saw too much. He understood her too well. What was it in him that gave him this insight into her? She pressed the heel of her hand to her chest and rubbed, revelling in the pain as she massaged the same spot Thomas had bruised when he pushed her back against the bath. It did nothing to relax her, but it reminded her why she suffered.

She leaned forward, struggling to breathe. It just wouldn’t come. There was too much pressure on her, too much to fear, too much to hide. There was no living through this. There was barely survival, never mind life. Jean couldn’t really justify the effort she put into scraping survival, but she continued to do it anyway.

The shrill ringing of the phone on her desk split the silence. Jean stood up, terrified by the shaking of her legs, and picked it up. “DCS Innocent,” she said. Her voice was raspy and choked. She very much hoped that this would be a one-sided conversation.

“Hey, ma’am,” Robbie Lewis said. “I’m out at Louisa Blackman’s mother and she said somethin’ odd – do we know if her brother’s got a record? I’d ask James but his phone’s turned off and he’s not at his desk.”

“Name?” Jean asked. One word was all she could manage.

“Dominic Blackman.”

“I’ll look into it.” She was terribly conscious of how breathless she sounded.

“You alright, ma’am?”

“Fine, inspector.”

She put the phone back on the hook and stumbled backwards. Whatever energy and composure Jean had clung to in order to speak to Robbie evaporated into nothing. She couldn’t stand. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t breathe. She was going to die here, with nobody to hold her hand; she shouldn’t have kicked James out. That was unfair to him, after all his attempts to be her friend.

Jean sunk back down onto the sofa, leaning forwards with her fingers knotted into her hair. She couldn’t do this. Every muscle in her body was being dissected. Her ribs splintered. Her skull fractured under the internal pressure. Tears flowed down her face with no control left to her. Fear, and anxiety, and guilt – they were the death of her. They took her breath away. They broke her heart. They overflowed her mind. They turned her stomach. And there was no way to stop it.


	10. Chapter 10

James Hathaway rubbed his hands over his face. Why couldn’t Innocent just let him be there for her? It was no good to go this alone, and she was an intelligent woman – she had to know her life would be less painful if she had something that resembled a friend. He wasn’t like her husband; surely she could not believe he would do her harm?

The desk phone rang again, but James ignored it. He needed to clear his head before he spoke to anyone.

He didn’t understand it. Innocent deserved so much more than this. She deserved peace and safety, and someone who was good to her. James didn’t want to know the reasons her husband had not been good to her. That man was inexcusable. Indefensible. Unforgivable. There were no circumstances under which James could imagine ever feeling any sympathy for him, much less defend or condone his treatment of Jean Innocent.

It was incredibly frustrating, that she would not even let him try to be good to her. That she could not accept even the most basic forms of friendship, or let him try and make any part of her life just that little bit easier, even if he couldn’t coax her into safety.

James was almost certain she had been attacked again after she left them in the pub last night. It wasn’t just that she wore a scarf indoors or wore her hair in a style she had not used in a long time. Innocent was avoiding people. Why else would she have phoned him to reprimand him for his approach at the university, when she normally would have invited (ordered) him down the corridor to her office so she could do it in person? Her confidence was visibly shattered. She was anxious. And though she stood mere inches from him, every part of her was struggling for distance.

The problem with a person like Jean Innocent trying to pretend she wasn’t in pain was that one missed step could rattle her to the core. James knew that feeling all too well – miss one line, one look, one smile, and it all started to crash to the ground. The difference between himself and Innocent was that where he would be able to control that feeling, he wasn’t sure Innocent was in a position where she could deal with it. She was being battered, belittled, beleaguered, and she had to be exhausted and in pain, and there was nothing she would let James do to help her.

James groaned when his mobile phone rang. It was Lewis, for a second time. He couldn’t keep ignoring his inspector. “Hello, sir,” he said.

“Don’t you know how to answer the bloody phone, James?” Robbie asked testily. There was something wrong. He could hear it in Robbie’s voice.

James sighed. “Sorry, sir. I needed a moment to myself. I just had a…” he hesitated, and decided it was better not to tell Robbie about his disagreement with Innocent. “I just needed a moment.”

“Well, now you’ve had your moment, could you do me a favour and go and check on Jean Innocent for me?”

“I’ve just seen her. She’s fine.”

“I’ve just spoken to her on the phone, and she’s not,” Robbie retorted. “She sounded like she was chokin’ on somethin’, or strugglin’ to breathe.”

“Alright, I’ll check, sir, but I’m sure she’s fine.”

“Thanks, James.”

He hung up and got wearily to his feet. He couldn’t have left Innocent more than ten minutes ago. What could have happened in under ten minutes?

* * *

 

Jean Innocent sat next to the waste paper bin, thoroughly convinced she was going to throw up. But if she couldn’t breathe, she didn’t very well see how she could throw up, no matter how tightly her stomach twisted itself.

She was gasping for air that never came, lightheaded and hyperaware of the lights above and the movement outside her office; she tore the scarf from around her neck, like it was to blame for obstructing her airways. There was no energy left to her body; her arms were weak and her legs limp, with no possibility of her standing up ever again. She was dying. This was her body losing the last of its life, and her mind allowing it. Jean leaned sideways against her desk and closed her eyes, screaming at herself to stop this. But there was no stopping it. Whatever _it_ was.

There was a knock at her door. “Go away!” she tried to shout, but her voice was hoarse and weak. The door opened, and the tall figure of James Hathaway entered. “Oh, James,” she moaned. “James, go away.” She didn’t want him here. As much as she wanted him here and wished she had never thrown him out, she could not expect him to deal with this.

“Ma’am,” James said urgently as he got down onto his knees at her side. He put his hands on her and lifted her upright so that she was no longer slouched, but straight-backed against the side of the desk. “What’s wrong?”

Jean shook her head, the pain in her chest spreading through her body, only to weaken her further. “Leave me alone,” she gasped out.

He could not be seeing this. A fresh wave of fear and shame crashed over her, causing her to double over with her fingers practically pulling her hair out of her scalp. “No,” James objected softly. He gently unpicked the knots her fingers made around her hair, with the care he might have shown a friend. “Don’t do that. Don’t do that to yourself.”

But her hands had to do something. She pulled them from James’ grip and dug the nails of her left hand into the back of her right. How could her body be so exhausted and yet her hands be so tense and her chest so tight? James forced her hands apart. “Leave me alone,” Jean choked on air that could never reach her collapsing lungs. But James held her hands firmly. “No, James. Stop. Leave me alone.”

She could not look at his face, horrified enough by their tightly joined hands. Jean realised that her hair had come out of its carefully placed style, and that the cut on her head was no longer hidden from view; she had taken the scarf off, and left her injury clear for all the world to see. It was a disaster. The end of the world. She could only hope she succumbed to death as quickly as possible. Trying to fight James off, sure he would never hurt her but terrified he had seen her, Jean found there was nothing left in her body to fight with.

Unable to struggle for breath any longer, Jean collapsed forward, caught by James. She closed her eyes and waited for it to kill her. But death wasn’t taking her. There was a hand rubbing gentle circles on her back, and her own hand had been taken to James’ warm chest. It moved steadily beneath her fingers, giving her the guide that might save her life. As he exhaled, Jean forced some of the air out of her lungs; she hadn’t understood until now that her lungs hadn’t been collapsing from a lack of air, but exploding because of an excess of it. “It’s okay, ma’am,” she could hear James say to her. “You’re going to be alright.”

“I’m not.” The words fell out of her. She hadn’t meant to even think them, and yet somehow, she had said them.

Slowly, her breathing returned to something that vaguely resembled normality, though her stomach was still twisting and she didn’t think she’d ever known her body so drained and shaky. James reached up and took the bottle of orange juice from the top of the desk, unscrewed the lid and gave it to Jean. “Can you stand?” he asked her.

Still refusing to look at his face, Jean toppled back against the side of the desk, instantly regretting it when the bruises on her back yelled their protest. “No,” she admitted. “I don’t think I can.”

James moved to sit down next to her, his long legs bent and his hands clasped between his knees. “That’s okay, ma’am,” he assured her. Jean gave a nod but couldn’t think of anything to say. She was still trying to work out how she could send him on his merry way. “Do you know what triggered it?”

“Triggered what?” Jean asked; the hollowness of her voice frightened her.

“You just had a panic attack,” he informed her, like it was something she should have known. But she hadn’t known it. She hadn’t been able to put a name to it, and that only made it all the more terrifying to feel her body breaking and shutting down. “Didn’t you realise that?”

“No. I didn’t know what it was. It’s never happened to me before. Not while I’ve been sober, anyway.”

“Did you go to the doctor?” James asked. That question made Jean finally look up at his face, simply because it was such a daft question. How could she have gone to the doctor about effectively collapsing in her office when it had only just happened? “That’s a nasty cut, and your throat-”

“I’m fine,” Jean interrupted him. On the floor at her feet was her scarf, which she picked up and hastily wound around her neck. She tried to pull her hair back over the would on her head but without a mirror, she couldn’t be sure how well she had managed to hide it. Resigned to the fact she probably just looked a mess, she took the clip away and let her hair hang freely. “I bumped my head on the cupboard door last night.”

“And I guess you ran into his hand with your throat, as well,” James retorted. Jean stared at him, finding all sorts of alarming things in his eyes. It was a bright pool of mixed emotions, but she managed to pick out frustration and concern above all the others. “Please don’t insult my intelligence, ma’am. I know when someone has been attacked.”

Jean glared at him. She hated that word, ‘attack.’ Thomas had not attacked her. “Nobody attacked me,” Jean answered him, hearing the iciness in her own voice. “I just got into a bit of an argument, that’s all.”

“Arguments are fought and won with words, not a hand around someone’s throat.”

But Jean didn’t have it in her to debate the matter. “I’m too tired for this,” she said, replacing the lid on her bottle of orange juice and placing it down on the floor. To her surprise, James’ arm found its way around her shoulders and carefully drew her in until her head rested upon his chest. What a strange thing for him to do. He wasn’t known for physical displays of affection or comfort, especially to those who did not deserve them.

“One day,” he said, stroking her hair away from her face, “you’ll be able to call this for what it is. You’ll be able to look at him and call him for what he is.” Tired and physically weak, Jean allowed her arm to rest across James’ stomach; even though she had not earned his care or his compassion, she was selfish enough to take it when she didn’t have the energy required to reject it. The infuriating man always fought back when she did that, and she could do without another fight.

Someone knocked on the door, and when she looked up from under her eyelashes, Jean could see Robbie Lewis crossing the room to them. “Superintendent Innocent’s had a bit of a panic attack, sir,” James explained. Jean’s eyes wanted to close, and she battled to keep them open.

Robbie’s gaze was as compassionate as James’, and to be on the receiving end up such willing understanding and camaraderie made Jean want to cry. There was nobody less deserving of it than her, and yet they gave her it anyway. She only just managed to swallow back the lump forming in her throat as Robbie crouched down and rubbed her shoulder. “I think you need a kip, ma’am,” he smiled at her. “You look knackered.”

“Thanks very much,” she replied.

Robbie chuckled and grasped her cautiously by the arm. Between the two of them, James and Robbie helped Jean to her feet. Her legs trembled underneath her, warning her they could not carry all her weight, but she didn’t need to tell them that. They seemed to have guessed that for themselves and slowly took her over to the sofa on the other side of the room. “Have a nap,” Robbie advised kindly. James, before Jean could say or do anything to stop him, disconnected her desk phone. “If anythin’ urgent comes up, one of us will come and wake you.”

Reluctant but all too aware that her body was too fatigued to make it through the rest of the day without incident, Jean lay down on the sofa. In the absence of a blanket, James shed his suit jacket and placed it over her shoulders. Under the warmth and weight of that jacket, it didn’t take long for Jean Innocent to surrender to sleep.


	11. Chapter 11

It was on Friday night that Jean Innocent once again found herself in the pub with her colleagues. It was her attempt at being responsible; at least here she was safe, and had someone watching her back, whether she deserved it or not. She didn’t fail to notice James Hathaway was drinking at half her pace, or that he was watching her with an astounding attentiveness and care. It unnerved her and comforted her simultaneously, and made her feel incredibly guilty that he was wasting his energies on someone as pathetic as her. But as she had discovered when she sat in his arms the other day, there was nothing she could do to stop him caring about her. Nothing that didn’t involve harming him with intent, and she would not stoop to that level.

Robbie and Laura were laughing at some inside joke, and their smiles lifted something in Jean she had thought long extinguished – a genuine warmth for those around her. By the time Robbie and Laura decided to call it a night, Jean was drunk again. Not heinously drunk – she was still more than capable of speech and walking – but drunk enough that James was not fond of the idea of letting her wander off on her own. “Let me walk you home, ma’am,” he offered when she started to pull on her coat and told him she was leaving.

“There’s no need, James,” she smiled. “It’s only a twenty-minute walk, and you live in the opposite direction. And before you offer, I do have to go home, because we’re visiting my son in the morning.”

“Won’t he notice?” James asked, pointing to the corner of his own head. “Or does he already know?”

“I’ll do my hair over it, and refrain from having a panic attack,” Jean replied. “He need never know anything.”

James didn’t look happy about that idea, but he didn’t voice his opinion. He simply got up and linked his arm in hers, determined he was to make sure she got home in one piece, even if not necessarily to safety. And as they walked up the road together, Jean caught herself having a normal, gentle conversation about the books they read in university, about their favourite classes in school, about the little quirks they had as very small children. Jean couldn’t help but think of what she had wished for a few nights ago: her mum.

And it all poured out. Suddenly she was introducing James Hathaway to the fearless little girl who would fall down, scrape her knees, only to get up and do again the very thing that caused her to fall down in the first place. “When I was six, I went over the handlebars of my bike because I took it down a slope covered in tree roots. You should’ve seen the state of my knees. I had a massive graze right up here,” she recounted, looking up at James and trailing her finger from her lip to just under her eye. “And while Mum was patching me up, I remember crying hysterically, not because I was in pain but because she was telling me I couldn’t try doing it again. I don’t think she ever realised that.”

James started laughing at her. “You really are one of a kind, ma’am.”

“I was a stubborn little thing,” she admitted with a smile.

“You still are.”

“I’m not little anymore,” Jean sighed, wishing more than anything that she could be tiny and pure again.

James looked down at her and smirked. “I think you’ll find you’re relatively little, ma’am.” Jean glared at him, but it did nothing to wipe the cockiness off his face. “Compared to me, anyway.”

She shook her head at him, and looked around her, disappointed to find they were only about two minutes from her house. Jean would have preferred to walk with James all night than set foot through her front door, but she didn’t have much choice if they were supposed to be seeing Chris tomorrow. Perhaps James sensed this, because when he next spoke, he said, “You know you can phone me at any time and I’ll come and get you, don’t you, ma’am?”

Jean couldn’t quite find the words to respond to that. It still didn’t sit right with her that James cared so much, and was so willing to do anything he could to keep her safe. There was nothing there to care about; she wasn’t worth the effort he was spending on her. And yet, she was selfishly drawn towards everything he offered her. Despite herself, sometimes she wanted more than anything to be looked after, even if someone like her, so stupid and ugly and problematic, deserved all the unpleasantness she endured. There were times, like when she let him cuddle her in Robbie’s living room, that she let him be her friend, regardless of whether or not she was supposed to have him.

“Thank you, James,” was all she could manage. They stopped and faced one another behind the hedge that sheltered them from view of her house. James was staring at her like he had done quite a few times before – beguiled and bewildered by whatever he found in her. “What?” she eventually asked, uncomfortable with the intensity of his gaze.

“I…” he said, but stopped short.

“Whatever it is, James, say it.”

“I wish you wouldn’t go back to him.”

“I have to. You know that,” Jean said, though it seemed to be of no comfort to James, whose face furrowed into a deep frown. “I know I’m right where I belong, believe me.”

James took a step towards her. “Are you saying you think you deserve what he does to you?” he asked.

Jean searched his face for the emotion that fuelled those words so she could safely respond, but there were too many. She couldn’t pick them apart from one another. Honesty was the only thing left to her. “He doesn’t _do_ anything to me,” Jean said. James expression instantly turned to one of outrage. “He just lets me know when I’m wrong, that’s all. And sometimes when we argue, it gets a little heated, but it’s almost always because I’ve wound him up in the first place.”

“That’s not answering my question,” he reminded her. His voice shook, and it had nothing to do with the cool night air.

“Yes, James, I earn everything I get.” James stalked past her and, to her horror, set foot on her driveway. “What are you doing?!” she hissed, running after him and dragging him back behind the hedge. “I can get myself in enough trouble without your help, sergeant!”

Jean didn’t quite know what it was she said that broke down James’ defences. Maybe she never would know what did it. But he gently put his hands on her face, his eyes raking over every inch of her. “You do _not_ deserve the things he does to you,” he said, his voice urgent and hushed. “You’re not stupid, or ugly, or weak – _he_ is. You’re beautiful, Jean,” he told her. She flinched at the use of her first name, for it meant he really needed her to listen to him. “And you’re intelligent, and funny, and competent, and you’re _brave_.”

She hadn’t realised tears were rolling down her cheeks until his thumbs wiped them away. There was more than one reason behind those tears. One was that she could not believe what he was telling her, so far as it was outside the realms of possibility, and felt so guilty that she had allowed him to think such things over her. But she was scared half to death by the woman inside her who cried out for this kind of comfort. The uninvited touching didn’t help, and shock only tore down the wall that prevented her from crying.

Her heart was suddenly bursting apart with fear and guilt, and she let the exhausted, bruised woman in her have her way; she leaned in and put her arms around James’ body, resting her forehead on his chest. And she allowed it. She was a horrible person for it, but she took his compassion and his kindness, however misplaced it was. She let him rub her back, and she could feel his fingers caress her cheek with a tenderness she hadn’t known in so long she’d forgotten what it was.

“I have to go,” she murmured.

James loosened his embrace, and Jean smiled up at him, hoping he might believe she was okay. But he wasn’t a stupid man, even if he was misguided. He leaned down and kissed her cheek, and took her hands into his. “You’re worth more than you’ll ever understand, Jean Innocent,” he sighed. “And the fact you’ll never know it…” he trailed away, like the thought caused him genuine pain. “Well, that’s down to him. But who knows? Maybe one day you’ll see what I see.”

It was the last thing she wanted to do, but she disentangled their fingers and said, “Goodnight, James.”

“Goodnight.”

When Jean rounded the corner to the drive, she saw that the hall light was on, which meant Thomas was probably still up. She was sure to be quiet in entering the house and taking off her coat and shoes; she didn’t know what kind of day Thomas had, or what kind of mood he was in.

She went through to the living room to find him watching the television. He looked up at her and said, “Good day at work?”

“Yeah, it was okay,” Jean sighed, sitting down on the sofa next to him. “Yours?”

“The usual,” he shrugged. “Ear infections and tonsillitis were the highlights of my day.” He reached out, and Jean instinctively startled, but was relieved when he put his arm around her.

They sat and watched television for a while, until Thomas pressed his face into her hair and pushed her across the sofa. “You stink like the Debenhams cologne department,” he snapped. Jean realised with a shot of fear that she smelled of James’ aftershave, from when she had cuddled into him, and he had kissed her cheek. Thomas got to his feet and dragged Jean up by the collar of her shirt. “Who’ve you been with?”

Maybe it was the drink. Maybe it was stupidity. Maybe James’ assertions that she was right and Thomas was wrong momentarily went to her head. But Jean was angered by the underlying accusation, and tore his hand off her clothes as she retorted, “My team, you jealous prat!” She pushed him a step backwards, putting some distance between them. “And yes, one of my colleagues walked me home, because he didn’t want me to walk half-cut on my own. Because, unlike the _idiot_ I married, he’s a gentleman!”

“And does this _gentleman_ have a name?” sneered Thomas. Jean saw the rage burning in his eyes, and knew why it was there: his stupid little wife was standing up to him.

“Yeah,” Jean said. “But I’m not going to tell you what it is, because I don’t want him to ever meet you! They think I’m respectable and intelligent. I’m their commanding officer and I’ll be damned if I’ll ever let them see the pathetic lowlife I was daft enough to-”

A fist made sharp contact with her face, blood pouring out of her nose and mouth as the pain spread outward from the point of contact. “You know it’s your own fault, don’t you?” he snarled in her face. “You stupid, arrogant, disrespectful little _bitch_.” He stormed out the room and up the stairs, and Jean knew that was him away to bed for the night.

Furious with herself for escalating a silly misunderstanding into a full-blown problem, Jean went to the kitchen and took out a bottle of wine and a glass from the cupboard. When she returned to the living room, she poured herself a full glass and drained it, ignoring the blood the still flowed into her mouth and over her face. How could she have been so idiotic? Stupid, moronic, reactionary woman.

For half an hour, Jean sat there rocking back and forth as she stared aimlessly into the television screen. And suddenly, there was nothing she wanted more on this Earth than her mother. Even just to hear the voice of someone who loved her unconditionally. It was the second time that night she indulged her own weaknesses, when she closed the living room door and took out her mobile phone; she didn’t want Thomas to know she was speaking to her mother. They didn’t get on and it was just another thing that might antagonise him.

After two rings, a sweet, familiar voice answered, “Hello?” Jean opened her mouth and closed it, realising suddenly that she was drunk and there was no way her mum could ever know the truth. “Jeannie, sweetheart, are you there?”

“Mum,” Jean exhaled slowly, conscious that she had been holding her breath and not particularly wanting another panic attack. “How are you? How’s Dad?”

“We’re fine, darling,” her mother said soothingly. “Are you alright?”

Jean took a large gulp of wine, preparing herself to lie to her mum. “Yeah, fine, Mum.”

“Because it’s very late. You don’t usually call at this time of the night.”

“I just…” Jean started to say, but stopped as it became clear just how childish and pathetic it was going to sound. But she had to say it, because it was the only shred of truth she could tell. “I just wanted to hear your voice,” she eventually said. Her voice was small. Even to herself, she sounded broken. “I just wanted my mum. Is that ridiculous?”

“Not at all, sweetheart,” her mum assured her. There was something about that reassurance that shattered Jean, and she burst into tears. “Jean, how much have you had to drink?”

“Not nearly enough,” sobbed Jean. “Not even close.”

“Has something happened?”

She hesitated, but decided to lie. “No, nothing’s happened. Although, I don’t think we’ll be able to visit Chris tomorrow.”

“Why?” The suspicion was evident in her mother’s tone, and Jean wondered why the hell she had said anything.

“Oh, um,” Jean scrambled for a lie, “one of Thomas’ colleagues called in sick so he’s ended up the GP on call this weekend.”

“Hmm. Well, sweetie, why don’t you put the bottle down and get some rest? We can talk more in the morning, when you’ve got your wits about you, okay?” Her tone wasn’t dismissive, or angry, but Jean could hear the worry and the concern, and wished now she had never bothered her mum. “I love you. And Dad loves you, too.”

“I love you,” sniffed Jean. “‘Night, Mum.”

“Goodnight, darling.”

Jean hung up the phone and finished her glass of wine, refilling it with the last of the bottle. Unsteady on her feet, she went to the sideboard cupboard and took out a small box; she sat back down and opened it, looking for one photograph in particular. When she found it, she allowed a sad smile onto her lips. It was the photograph her mother had taken after she had gone over the handlebars of her bike at the age of six. She was on her bike again, looking up into the camera with a bright, carefree grin, completely unbothered by the scrapes on her face and the grazed knees. Why would she be bothered, when her mum took such loving care of her she was able to get back on her bike that same afternoon?

She finished the wine and lay down on the sofa, still gazing at that photo wondrously, at a little girl she barely knew anymore. How could that sweet girl be her? That little girl was brave, brilliant and beautiful. It broke her heart that she had let this girl, with her curly pigtails and big happy eyes, grow into such a desolate, broken creature. What would her mother say if she knew who her daughter really was? What would her dad say if he knew his daughter had panic attacks in her office and fell apart on one of her sergeants? They would hate her. And that was why she could never tell them.


	12. Chapter 12

The doorbell was what woke Jean Innocent the next morning. Hungover and half-asleep, she got up with a groan, padded down the hall and opened the front door. “Mum!” Jean cried out. She threw herself onto her mother, who hugged her tight and kissed her head. She moved past her mum and dived into her father’s arms, that protection from the outside world she had always trusted more than anything else as a girl. “What on Earth are you doing here?”

But when she saw their faces, they were horror-stricken. In her post-binge state, it took Jean a moment to realise why her mother’s hands had flown to her mouth, or why her dad’s face had paled white enough to make milk look grey. She had done nothing last night to clean up the mess that had been made of her face. She didn’t even want to look in a mirror – she thought she might die with the shame. “We decided to come and check you’re okay after your call last night, and it’s just as well we did, isn’t it?! So this is why you can’t go and see Chris,” her mum said furiously. “This is why-”

“Mary,” Jean’s father warned. “There’s a time and a place for that. On the doorstep isn’t where to do it.”

Jean peered over his shoulder, somewhat relieved to see that Thomas’ car was missing from the drive. “George, she’s had her face battered!” Mary snapped. “Look at her!”

Unable to allow this conversation to occur on her doorstep, Jean pulled Mary into the house; George followed and closed the door, and Jean said, “It’s fine. I just had a bit much to drink last night. Tripped and hit my face on the stairs.”

“You haven’t even wiped the blood away, sweetheart!” fretted Mary.

 Before Jean could protest, she was being dragged by the hand to the kitchen and told to sit down. George looked on helplessly as his wife started to search the cupboards for the first aid kit. “Above the oven,” Jean moaned, resigned to the fact that Mary and James were really quite alike – relentless in the pursuit of care. “Mum, it’s fine. I’ll-”

“You’ll sit there and do as your mother says.” It was George who spoke, his voice stern and restrained. Jean glared at him.

“I’m not a _child_ , Dad!”

“No, but you’re our daughter and you’re hurt. Just be thankful we’re not dragging you down to Minor Injuries.”

“We still might, if this is as bad as it looks,” Mary retorted darkly. She soaked cotton wool in a mixture of Dettol and water, and warned Jean, “This is going to sting, love, but you need to stay still for me, alright?”

Jean did as she was told, almost relishing the sting of antiseptic in open wounds. “What really happened?” asked George. She looked away from him, watching Mary’s hands do their work. “Was it him?” Jean took ‘him’ to mean ‘Thomas’, and tried to ignore the question. Her dad, however, was not one to go without answers, and pulled up a chair next to her, squeezing her shoulder. It aggravated the half-healed bruises from being slammed against walls and thrown onto floors, and Jean could not help but pull herself from George’s grip. “Jean?”

There was a humiliation in having her dad paralyse her like this. She so wanted to lie to him, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Instead, she said nothing, unwilling to tell the truth and unable to tell a lie. Jean didn’t protest when he lifted the hem of her blouse to reveal her back, which she was sure was multicoloured with bruises of varying ages and points of healing. “My God, Jeannie,” he breathed.

The contents of the bowl had turned crimson with the amount of dried blood removed from Jean’s face. Mary lifted Jean’s hair, touching the now-healing cut on her head, and moved her chin upwards to get a better look at her throat. “What has he done?” whispered Mary.

“He hasn’t done anything,” Jean quickly jumped in. “It was a couple of silly arguments, that’s all.”

“Silly arguments don’t end with a fist in your face!” Mary snapped.

“It’s fine, Mum,” Jean tried again to reassure her. “Honestly.”

“And _that_ , Jean, is how I know you’re lying,” she answered, turning her back on Jean to get a mug and a plastic bottle from the cupboard. As she ran the tap cold, she said, “You only ever say ‘honestly’ when you’re lying. You always have done that.” She returned and pressed a mug of blackcurrant squash into Jean’s hands. Some habits, it seemed, could never be broken. “Darling, you’re a detective. If this were anyone else, you’d be telling them to get out of here.”

“I’m not anyone else,” mumbled Jean. Mary bent down and kissed her cheek, and drew up a chair just as George had done. “Just leave it, Mum. It’s fine.” She distracted herself with her drink, and drank deeply from the mug. Jean hadn’t realised her thirst until she tasted that sweetness on her tongue, and its wetness on the back of her throat. It reminded her of childhood accidents and warm summers, back when she was innocent and unbroken. Mary watched her with a fondness; Jean wondered if her mother had seen a fleeting glimpse of her little girl sitting in front of her.

George leaned forwards, his expression thoughtful, and said, “Put yourself on the other side of it, darling. If your Chris opened the door and he had a bloody face, and he was black and blue, and all the available evidence pointed towards it being his girlfriend behind it, would you leave it?”

“Of course not!” Jean exclaimed, a little insulted by the insinuation she might walk away from her son when he needed her.

“Then how can you expect us to leave this?”

She opened her mouth to give an angry retort – that she deserved everything she got, that she provoked these reactions in her husband, that she wasn’t able to let them get involved. That she needed them to leave, and preferably before Thomas got home. But it never came out. The only words she could find were, “I’m sorry.” She stood up and made for the living room, having decided to busy herself with clearing up the debris from last night. Her parents’ eyes burned into her back as she put those old photographs back in their box and into the cupboard, and gathered up the wine glass and empty wine bottles.

The cushion Jean had used for a pillow last night was smeared with blood. Jean couldn’t stomach the sight of it, and set the glass and bottle down so she could unzip it fiercely, but she couldn’t get the pillow out of its cover. She struggled with it until it caused her a headache. There was no order to this. How could it be that her parents were standing in her living room, watching what Jean was terrified was the beginning of the end?

She could not destroy her marriage. She could not abandon the man with whom she had raised a child. Her life was disintegrating, and now her mum and dad had front row seats. And this _bloody_ cushion was going to be the end of her. Why wouldn’t that cover come off? Was it sewn to the cushion inside or was she just a weak, incompetent wretch?

“Jean,” she heard Mary’s voice, but it sounded like it came through water. “Jean, sweetheart, calm down!”

Calm down? _Calm down_?! “Calm down?!” Jean shouted at her mother. “You come in here, pull every thread I’ve stitched into my life apart and you want me to _calm down_?!” Mary was astounded, and Jean knew why. This was not her daughter. George watched quietly, as he had done Jean’s whole life. He never did add anything unless he believed it would be helpful. “How _dare_ you?!”

Mary took a cautious step forward as Jean threw the uncooperative cushion to the floor. “What has happened to you, my sweet, beautiful girl?” asked Mary.

“No,” Jean said firmly, raising a finger at Mary in a desperate bid for control of this situation. “No, you do _not_ get to do this. You don’t have the right to waltz into my house and make me feel like this. I am going for a shower, and when I get back down here, I do not want to find you anywhere in my home.”

She barged past her mother, only to be caught on the way past by her father’s arms. “This isn’t like you,” he said. His voice was quiet, measured, but still did nothing to calm the panic raging in the pit of Jean’s stomach. “What happened to logic? When in doubt, look at the rules.”

“All the rules are broken, Dad!” Jean snarled angrily. “Nothing is where it should be!”

Jean didn’t know what expression graced her features, but it drove George to take her hands tightly. “Nothing is broken that we can’t fix, darling.”

“ _I_ am broken!” Jean heard herself say. “There’s something so horribly, fundamentally wrong with me that nothing will ever be as it should with me involved!” She was horrified. Had she just admitted that to her dad? But now that she had started, it all bubbled up, and it started to pour from her mouth without control or restraint, with no way for her to stop it, even when Mary rushed over to her. “Everything I do, it’s wrong! I’m useless. Stupid. I have to drink just so I can live with myself! I’m _scared_ of coming home at night! What kind of role model for female police officers does that make me? And James Hathaway – God, James puts up with so much from me and he’s such a gentleman he won’t turn his back on me. Not even when I fell apart like a pathetic, emotional wreck! And I-” she said, but was cut off by her parents’ embrace, falling in between them, their arms around her. “And I can’t leave.”

It was the physical pain as her bruised face fell against her mother’s shoulder that broke Jean. She cried, sobbing like she had done that night in Robbie’s living room. Was James right? Was this abuse? Had she allowed herself to become an abused wife?

Yes.

Both Mary and James had said it – arguments were made of words, not blows. Her husband wasn’t the man she thought he had been. The man he had been, once upon a time. And she permitted him to push their marriage in this direction. Had she worked too much? Spent too much time with Chris and not enough with Thomas? Ignored too many midday phone calls? Become unlovable? Why was he doing this? “Oh, sweetheart,” Mary whispered in her ear, kissing her cheek gently. “Why didn’t you come to us?”

Suddenly, honesty came as easy as air, though Jean could not know how long that would last. “I’m ashamed,” she wept. “I’m meant to be better than this. A good wife doesn’t drive her husband to batter her all black and blue. Even if it’s wrong to hit me, I must have done _something_ to deserve it, or he wouldn’t do it, would he?”

George stood Jean up, relying on Mary’s help to keep Jean upright and on her feet. “This is not your fault. You don’t deserve any of this.”

“I _must_ ,” Jean insisted. She couldn’t see how she didn’t deserve it. She already knew she wasn’t a nice woman; she’d proven that with her recent treatment of James Hathaway. “I’m not who you think I am. I’m not good enough. That must be why he hates me.”

A car pulled into the drive, and Jean found herself frozen where she stood, her parents’ hands holding her steady. She listened as the door opened and closed, and as Thomas hung up his keys. He must have seen Mary and George’s car parked in front of the house. “Sorry about that, Jean!” She stepped back from her parents and wiped her face, ignoring the pain her own touch caused her. “You know what Caleb’s like – every time that bloody laptop of his needs updated, he somehow manages to screw it up.”

Thomas strode confidently into the living room and pressed a kiss onto Jean’s sore lips. “How are you, George? Mary?” he asked conversationally, picking up the cushion and stripped away the cover Jean had battled with an assured ease. Jean looked around at her mum and dad, completely powerless. Why was it she always ended up powerless in this bloody house?


	13. Chapter 13

Jean Innocent watched in horror as her parents both took a step towards her husband. This could not be happening. “Our daughter,” Mary said firmly, “is going to go upstairs and pack a bag, and we are going to take her somewhere safe.”

Thomas snorted in amusement. “Safe from what?”

“From you, Thomas,” George interjected. “Look at the state of her. How long have you been abusing her?”

Jean winced internally; if she wasn’t fond of that word, Thomas was sure to loathe it. “Abusing her?” Thomas repeated. “I’ve done nothing to her. Have I, Jean?”

She looked at the floor. How was she supposed to pick sides between her husband and her parents? “Jean?” Thomas said uncertainly. “Tell them nothing’s happened, will you?!”

Her gaze lifted from the floor and she met Thomas’ eyes. He was furious. She could see it burning in his face, and was now terrified of what he might do when her parents left. It was, after all, her fault they were here at all, and if he found out about her drunken phone call to her mum last night, he was sure to be uncontrollably angry with her. “Nothing happened,” Jean obeyed. Her voice was a mumble. She turned her head and looked her mother in the eyes, hoping she might get the message when she added, “Honestly.”

“If you were any slower, you’d be going backwards,” grumbled Thomas.

“Well, _someone_ has battered her black and blue,” Mary argued her case. “And it’s not a great leap from emotional to physical abuse.”

Jean stepped between them, because she could quite easily envision Thomas snapping and losing his temper with Mary. But it was George who spoke, probably trying to protect Mary as much as Jean was. “Thomas, we don’t know exactly what’s going on. Jean won’t tell us. But the fact of the matter is that we came to visit our daughter and found her with both fresh and old injuries. We’d be remiss if we didn’t do something to remove her from what looks, to us, like a dangerous place to live.”

“Dangerous, my arse,” Thomas scoffed. “You love me, don’t you, Jean?”

And in spite of all her fear, and all the knowledge that it was messy and impossible to come to terms with, the only truthful answer Jean could give was, “Yes. I love you. You’re my husband, the father of my child – of course I love you.”

“See? She’s happy here.” He spoke directly to George and Mary, and a small piece of Jean was happy he was at least arguing to keep his wife. Surely it meant he did love her, even if sometimes he lost his cool with her? “Leave her be.”

Mary tilted her head and stared at Jean. “ _Are_ you happy?”

There and then, that was the moment Jean was backed into a corner. What was she meant to do? Lie to her parents to keep her husband happy, or tell the truth and upset her husband? She couldn’t do either. She was too tired to find a diplomatic answer to circumvent the question. A lump built up in her throat, and there was nothing she could do to prevent the quiet tears falling down her face. They, Jean feared, told their own story.

George, ever the peacekeeper, took Jean’s hand and put it into Mary’s – his silent order to go and pack a bag while he kept Thomas down here. And despite all her misgivings, Jean did as her dad told her to. She went upstairs with her mum and found an overnight bag. “We’ll take you home with us,” Mary said.

“No,” Jean said. “No, I have to stay in Oxford for work. I’m not driving two hours on Monday morning.”

“You’re not staying here, with him, darling,” she warned severely. “I won’t – can’t – allow it.” Jean stopped thrusting clothes into her bag and sat down on the edge of her bed. “And your shirt’s got blood on the collar. You’re going to have to get changed out of yesterday’s clothes.” When Jean ignored her, Mary sat down on the bed and ran her fingers through Jean’s hair. “If you won’t leave Oxford, is there at least somewhere you can go? A friend, or a colleague? You’re so upset, I don’t want to leave you in a lonely old hotel room.”

Jean closed her eyes for a moment, recalling what James had said to her last night. “I don’t know if he meant it or if he was just a bit tipsy, but Sergeant Hathaway said he would take me in.”

“Does he know?”

“Yes.” Jean looked around at her mother. “I’ve been having panic attacks. He knows how to get me out of them.”

Mary’s eyes, exactly the same as Jean’s, searched her face. “You said you’ve been drinking.”

“It started as a rebellion,” Jean admitted. “I would do it for spite, because I knew it bothered Thomas that I _could_ go and do it. But about a month ago, I tried to wander off out of the pub on my own. I was wasted, Mum,” she said, fighting back tears again. “And Sergeant Hathaway took me home. Christ, if Thomas knew _that_ , he’d lose the plot.” She realised she was fidgeting with her own fingers, and so laid her hands flat upon her thighs. “And then I got drunk in my office one night. Inspector Lewis found me. He got Dr. Hobson to take me back to his place and…I don’t know what happened. It felt like I was drowning. I was still drunk – all I really remember is James Hathaway cuddling me, trying to calm me down.”

“Oh, my darling little girl,” Mary sighed. Jean didn’t protest to being addressed as such; she knew that, to her parents, she was always going to be their darling little girl. She would never be Chief Superintendent Innocent to them. She was their little Jean, and she had never been more grateful for that. It meant they accepted that she felt vulnerable without the prejudice of knowing she was supposed to be in charge of a police department. They never would tell her to toughen up.

“I’m sorry for calling last night,” Jean murmured. “I was drunk, and I’d had an argument with Thomas. I just wanted my mum. I couldn’t take it anymore, and I needed my mum.”

“That’s okay,” Mary reassured her. “You go and get changed, and I’ll finish packing for you, alright?”

Ten minutes later, George was holding the front door open, Jean’s coat and handbag already in his hands. Thomas stood beside him; he looked down at Jean and said, his tone astonishingly soft, “Please don’t do this, Jean. I love you.” It was a different man standing there. This wasn’t the person who punched her and strangled her. This was a man who needed her. There was even something that looked vaguely like remorse in his eyes – though that might have been shock.

“I love you, too,” she said. “I do. But Thomas, I’m _tired_.” That was the only word Jean could find to sum up how she felt. “I can’t keep you afloat while you’re drowning me.”

He moved towards her, and she forced down the instinct to back away. To her surprise, he took her gently into his arms and kissed her hair. “I’m sorry,” he said. Jean closed her eyes and hugged him tight; this was why she could never walk away from him. Underneath all the violence, he was a damaged man, and needed her more than anything else in the world. She knew that. Abandoning him like this was killing her. “I love you, Jean.”

She reached up and kissed his cheek. “Don’t make it harder on yourself than it has to be,” she warned him. Jean stroked his hair for a moment and stepped away, following her parents into their car. She didn’t look back – she thought the sadness might kill her if she did.

As George drove towards somewhere he could get Jean something to eat, she took out her mobile and dialled James Hathaway’s number. She didn’t have a choice anymore. It rang once before he picked it up and said, “Hello, ma’am.”

“James,” she breathed, a little relieved he had answered the phone and not just ignored her. “You know you said you would help me?”

“Yes,” he replied. “Of course. What do you need?”

“A place to sleep?” suggested Jean. “Thing is, my parents have shown up, and they’ve convinced me to leave my husband.”

“Good,” James said. Jean was surprised by the savage quality to his voice. “If you want, I could meet you at the pub and take you in your car.”

Jean was enormously glad someone was thinking strategically, because she certainly wasn’t capable of that right now. “Yeah, okay. Just give me a while to calm down?” she asked. She had noticed only now that her hands shook and her heart raced while her mind tried to make something rational of this upheaval.

“I’ve actually just got home with groceries,” said James, “and I’ll have to tidy up. I’ll meet you in an hour?”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “Yeah. Thank you, James,” she added sincerely. “I know I’m a pain-”

“You’re not a pain, ma’am,” he interrupted her. “Don’t ever think that.” She rolled her eyes at his inability to allow her to say anything negative about herself. “I’ll see you in an hour.”

“Thank you.”

She hung up the phone and directed her father to the pub she had left with James last night. They ordered lunch, and Jean forced it down despite not being even remotely hungry. That in itself was odd, since hangovers generally made her stomach believe her throat had been cut. Perhaps it was the tension in her body that caused the food to stick in her chest, but eating was not an easy task at all today.

Jean listened to her parents telling her she could not go back to Thomas, and that she was to stay with James until she found a place of her own, and that she had to tell Chris the extent of what had happened so he understood why his parents were splitting up; she nodded in all the right places and hoped it was enough to convince her mum and dad that she could ever put herself before Thomas. Mary’s expression was mistrustful, and Jean knew she was wondering if her daughter could be trusted not to go back there at the first opportunity. Jean was wondering the same thing.

When James appeared an hour later, he seemed much taller than Jean recalled. A moment later, though, she realised James wasn’t taller at all – she just felt small. After a barrage of instructions from Mary to James that included not letting Jean anywhere near Thomas, making sure Jean ate her meals and keeping Jean off alcohol as much as possible, Jean looked at the floor, feeling the heat in her face that told her she was blushing furiously while Mary played Mummy Bear. “I’ll look after Jean,” said James. “I’ve been trying my best to look after her for weeks now.”

Mary opened her mouth but George halted her. “I can see she’s in safe hands,” he said. He stood up and shook James’ hand. “Just don’t let her run rings around you. Too intelligent for her own good, this one.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Jean replied. “Boy bloody Wonder here is more than a match for me.”

It was supposed to be a cutting remark, but James just smirked. She stepped up and hugged each of her parents, giving them the thanks she knew they deserved, and made them promise they’d call when they got home safely. And soon enough, she was in the passenger seat of her own car, staring in front of her while James drove. “I’ll be out of your hair tomorrow,” she told James quietly.

“Where will you go?”

“Home,” she said simply.

“Ma’am, no,” James groaned. “He’s hurting you.”

“We just had a stupid row,” Jean reverted back to her standard excuse for the cuts and bruises on her face. “It’s nothing. And he needs me,” she admitted. “He’s not very good at being alone. Even I’m better company than no company for him.”

They got out the car, and James led Jean into his home, carrying all her belongings she had taken with her, refusing to let her take them herself. She stood in the hallway – it was the first time she had seen it while sober. James’ head appeared around the living room door. “Come in, ma’am,” he urged her. “I don’t bite.”

Jean stared blankly at him. What had she done? Oh, Christ, how could she have done this? She had to go back. Not tomorrow. Now. This was alien to her. Uncharted territory she couldn’t even begin to navigate. She suddenly wanted everything that was familiar to her – her home and her husband, and all the good and bad that came along with that. But James’ hand was around hers, leading her to the living room. Disconnected from herself, she vaguely felt her body sink into his sofa and her fingers tighten around his hand, all the while trying to reconcile who she was with what she had just done to her husband.

She was an awful wife. She never had been very good at it in the first place, dedicated as she was to her job and her son. But she had never walked out on Thomas for longer than the overnight binge drinking session it took to be able to live with him.

“Ma’am?” she heard James asked. There was an urgency in his voice that made Jean wonder what she was doing, and what she looked like. “Jean?”

She looked up when she realised she had been staring into the floor. James was standing in front of her, eyeing her with concern and fear in equal measures. Jean could hear the words come out of her mouth, even if she couldn’t feel herself saying them. “What have I done?” She got to her feet, not knowing what she was doing or where she was going.

“Tell me what you need,” James implored her. “Tell me how I can help.”

It was like a wrecking ball hurtling through the walls she had built around herself. They were no longer dismantled brick by brick, but knocked through in one fell swoop. The Jean Innocent who hid behind those walls surfaced – the woman who didn’t know who she was or how to survive, so weathered was she by her husband’s constant belittling. She couldn’t even tell James what she needed from him, because how could she know such a thing? This was why she had to go back to the familiarity of her marriage; that was something she had learned how to deal with. “I don’t know,” she whispered. Her arms crossed over across her stomach and she shied away from James, waiting for the frustrated remarks about how she never knew the answer to anything.

But they never came.

“That’s alright,” he reassured her. Jean could feel his hand tenderly rubbing her arm. How could he be so kind to her, even now? That was something Jean could not comprehend. “You’ve had a difficult day. Let’s just sit down and decompress, okay?”

So, she did. She sat down with him. And the longer she sat there, the smaller she felt, until she gave in to it and hesitantly leaned in towards James to rest her head under his arm. Even if she couldn’t understand his kindness, and though she knew she had not earned it, she needed it to feel safe.

This was where Jean Innocent was safe. The trouble was, safety was not something she knew how to live with.


	14. Chapter 14

It was late when James Hathaway knelt down beside his sofa, where Jean Innocent lay asleep. Her face was bruised, with small cuts on her cheek; even marred by violence, she had an attractive face. She was always pretty, albeit in a rather austere, demure way – even when she was scowling at him for employing sketchy methods or following unorthodox (problematic, to Innocent) lines of enquiry. He rather thought she didn’t know she was beautiful at all.

He placed his hand carefully on Innocent’s arm, and that was all it took for her to startle herself awake and let out an involuntary gasp of fear. “James?” she asked. For a moment, she looked confused, but he watched it all come back to her as her face took on the pained expression it had worn all day.

“You fell asleep, ma’am,” he told her. “And I really think you ought to go to bed. You’ll only hurt your back here.”

“And you won’t?” she challenged him, one eyebrow raised as she drew herself upright with a wince. “I should sleep here, and you should keep your bed.”

James sighed. They’d had this conversation once before, though it was easier to convince Innocent to take priority over him when she was under the influence of alcohol. He had followed her parents’ instructions to the letter, serving her dinner with no alcohol. “You’re my guest, and I would rather you took my bed than sleep here with an already bruised back.”

Innocent sighed and pulled a cushion across her front. “I’m not a guest. I’m an invader.”

“Generally speaking, ma’am, people resist invaders, not welcome them.”

“You’ve got a bloody answer for everything, haven’t you?”

“What can I say? It’s part of my charm,” he smirked at her. She allowed him the tiniest of smiles, but James could tell he had dragged it out of her. “I want you here, where you’re safe, sober and warm. Why is that so hard to accept?”

She looked away, and James came to the uncomfortable realisation that he had hit a painful nerve in her. What exactly was it about the fact he _wanted_ to help her that she couldn’t come to terms with? “Look, it’s not that I don’t appreciate you having me,” Innocent began, her voice barely louder than a whisper, “but I’m only here because my mum threw a hairy fit. If she hadn’t turned up unannounced, I wouldn’t be bothering you at all.”

James sat up on the sofa beside her. “I know it’s hard to walk away,” he told her. “He’s your husband; I know there must be some kind of love there. But it’s not worth more than you are. It isn’t worth your safety or your health.”

“Why are you doing this?” she asked.

“Doing what?”

“Being kind?”

“You deserve kindness.” Innocent frowned at him like he’d just recited the Bible in Norwegian. “You do, ma’am. You deserve so much more than this.” He watched her clutch her cushion tightly into her stomach, like it was going to protect her from harm. Her nails dug into the fabric; it served as the evidence that she was anxious, for all she tried to pretend she would be fine if she went home. “Can I just make one objective, though horrible, observation?” he asked her.

She shot him a look that said simply, ‘If you must.’

“As detectives, as police officers, how many people do we see go back to an abusive relationship and end up dead?”

Innocent flinched; James knew it wasn’t a fair thing to put on her, but it was the one thing he thought might dissuade her from going back in the morning. “I won’t end up dead, James,” she told him gently. Suddenly, she was the one trying to reassure him. “We get into silly fights, that’s all. He’d never kill me.”

“If he can systematically abuse you, he can kill you. You _know_ that.”

“He loves me,” Innocent replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Even if, now and again, our arguments go a bit too far, Thomas does love me. He’d never do anything to _really_ hurt me.”

James stared at her in disbelief. He couldn’t help himself. How was such an intelligent, beautiful, skilled woman so able to dismiss injuries to herself she would have acknowledged and even tended to in anyone else? “You can’t be serious,” he said. It was a struggle to keep the anger out of his voice, for he did not want her to make the mistake of feeling it was directed at her. “Have you _seen_ your face?”

“A couple of bruises is hardly life-threatening.”

“No, but the knock to the head could’ve been!”

“That wouldn’t have happened if I’d not been drunk,” she argued. “I wouldn’t have lost my balance.”

“He strangled you that night, ma’am!” James replied, trying extremely hard to keep his voice calm and level. “ _That_ could have been life-threatening!”

“Stop being hysterical, sergeant,” Innocent said wearily.

He shook his head to himself. Why was it so bloody hard to get through to her? She was a smart woman. If this had been the other way around, she would have been dragging him out of any similar relationship by the scruff of his neck. But her expression softened, and he saw something shine across her eyes that he couldn’t quite place. As she sat there, holding a cushion for comfort, it dawned on James that she must have been desperately lonely, for all she had friends around her. It was difficult for him, seeing her in this state of vulnerability. He could just imagine how difficult it was for Innocent to _be_ vulnerable; as far as he knew, accepting vulnerability, at least in herself, was not part of her programming.

He knew himself it was sometimes easier to hurt than to heal. In fact, that was the case more often than it wasn’t. There was a logic to her reluctance to break away, as flawed and as potentially dangerous as it was.

More than that, though, it was easier to burn everything to the ground than it was to put the matches down and build the damaged pieces back up. And _that_ was what Innocent would be doing if she put herself back into the throes of her marriage: burning so she didn’t have to build. James had seen it so many times that he even knew the look of a person who could burn but not build. He had been that person, on occasion. And now Innocent was, too.

James allowed himself too look Innocent in the eyes, and soon wished he hadn’t. He didn’t think he’d ever seen anything so beautifully fearful in his life. “I’m tired, James,” she said; her voice was almost a moan. “And I know you want to give me the third degree and a powerpoint presentation on the disadvantages of going home, but can it wait until tomorrow?”

With a wry smile, James let out a low chuckle. “Of course, ma’am. I just…” he began, but hesitated. Innocent gave him the impatient look she always gave him when she wanted him to just spit it out. “If I’m a bit overzealous, it’s only because I care about you.” He stood up and held out a hand, helping Innocent to her feet. She looked small. Frightened. Lost. Carefully, with all the gentleness he had in him, James leaned down and kissed Innocent’s cheek. “Goodnight, ma’am.”

* * *

 

Jean Innocent checked the time on her phone; it was well after three in the morning, and she was still very much awake. All she could think of was Thomas sitting along in their empty and silent house, abandoned by the wife who had vowed to love, honour and obey him. Had she not just shattered her marriage vows into a million irreparable shards?

She scrolled to the text message Thomas had sent to her earlier, to tell her it wasn’t fair of her to leave him, and that she ought to stop her overreaction and come home. And, God, did she want to go home. Home was all she knew and here, in James Hathaway’s home, Jean was rapidly coming to the realisation she did not know who she was meant to be. There were no parameters, no rules by which she had to play for survival. There was no way she could define herself.

James, for all he wanted the best for her, would never be able to understand, never mind accept, this aching need for all that was familiar and normal to her. How could he accept that she needed Thomas and all his faults? She knew who she was when she had her husband at her side. He was her anchor: even when he drowned her, he held her steady.

She was lost at sea here, stranded in a life buoy thrown to her by those who wanted to protect her from their own perceived dangers. Thomas wasn’t a danger to her; she was a danger to herself. She spoke too much. Drank too much. Worked too much. Socialised too much. Fought too much. All in all, she was simply _too much_. She had to tone it down. If she could do that, her marriage to return to what it once was. After all, there had been a time she had got on brilliantly with Thomas, when they fitted together perfectly.

Footsteps drew near, up the stairs, and instinct told Jean to make herself small. The door creaked open, a tall figure visible in the light of the hall. “James?” Jean asked cautiously. “Everything okay?”

“Just checking on you, ma’am,” he answered her quietly. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” sighed Jean, relieved he hadn’t done anything to upset him while she imposed her presence upon him and his home. “You should go back to sleep, James. No need for you to be awake at this hour.”

Suddenly, the bedroom light switched on with a click, and James stood there in his pyjamas. “I’m worried about you.”

Jean smiled up at him, the covers still pulled up to her chin. “Please don’t worry,” she said. “There’s no need. It’s all going to be okay.”

He sat on the edge of the bed as Jean sat up to have whatever conversation they needed to have for James to stop his irrational concern for her. “Until Inspector Lewis came along,” said James, “who in that station was I able to get along with?”

She frowned at him, unsure what it was he was trying to get at. “Well, you got on well with…” she trailed away, realising uncomfortably there had been nobody who understood James Hathaway well enough to get on with him before Robbie Lewis took him under his wing.

“You,” James said. “I got on with you, ma’am, even when nobody else could tolerate me.”

“I’m your chief super, James,” Jean smiled. “I don’t have the option of not getting along with you.”

“You could have sacked me,” he retorted, like he had the answer ready. “As a DC, the total inability to cooperate with fellow police officers was reason enough to sack me.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” she said.

“I know.” Jean watched him quietly, able to see this was something he needed to get off his chest. “The difference between everyone else and the likes of you and Robbie is that even if you don’t understand me, you usually try. Everyone else writes me off as posh, overeducated and difficult – even by Oxford’s standards. But you and Robbie appreciate the positives of my education and my eccentricities, and you seem to care about what happens to me.”

Jean raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Of course we care about what happens to you, James!”

“Exactly,” smiled James. “And _that_ is part of the reason I feel so strongly about your situation, ma’am. I don’t care about you out of pity or some sense of duty. I care about you because, once upon a time, you were one of the few people who made me feel like I was worth something as a detective and as a person. I care about you because you are a _good woman_.”

Jean’s mind impulsively disputed those last two words, but she managed not to verbalise it, for it could only upset James. Instead, she chose to ask him, “Why are you telling me this?”

“I think you need to hear it.”

Why was James so intent upon keeping her walls down? This view he had into her made her uncomfortable; she was afraid of what he might find. And yet, Jean couldn’t help but feel a little bit of fondness for him for the sheer effort he made. Of all the people who could make her feel cared for and safe, she would never have thought it would be James Hathaway. “You should go back to sleep,” she repeated herself.

“Have you slept at all since coming up here?” James asked her suspiciously.

Jean looked down at her fingers as they fidgeted with the throw on the bed. “No,” she admitted.

“I’m not surprised,” he sighed. “It’s always hard to be left with your thoughts through the night.”

She looked up. That wasn’t something she had expected to hear him say. How many nights had he spent awake, unable to shut his mind off? “No,” she finally agreed. “No, it’s not my idea of a party, anyway.”

James’ smile was tainted with a profound sadness that caused a large and painful lump to build in her throat. “Try and rest, ma’am.”

He stood up and headed for the door. Jean almost asked him to stay. But she resisted that temptation and said, “Goodnight, James.”

“Goodnight,” he said as he switched off the light.

As soon as James was safely down the stairs, Jean allowed herself to let go of her self-restraint. She had cried more in the past few weeks than she had done in the last five years put together. It betrayed how rundown and exhausted she was, but above all, it was confusion that had the ability to break her down like this. The pain of trying to reconcile what she wanted with the advice from her perfectly compassionate and intelligent friends cut through her like a knife. It just didn’t fit together, and it should have done. She should have been able to match what everyone else told her was right and safe with what she wanted to do and where she wanted to be.

Jean hunched over herself and let it rip through her chest like the north wind taking her breath away. The world around her vanished. She was lost in the memory of who she had married, and the son they had raised, and the situation she now found herself in. The simple fact of the matter was that she had to change if she was going to save her marriage. There had to be less time at work and with colleagues, and she would have to learn not to speak and not to take up too much space. She would have to learn how to be the woman Thomas wanted her to be.

A weight fell onto the empty side of the bed, a pair of arms softly enveloping her as she sat and tried to figure out the person she was going to have to build from scratch. “It’s alright, ma’am,” whispered James. “I knew this was going to happen.”

“Clairvoyant now, are you, sergeant?” she asked between sobs.

“No,” he chuckled. “I just know that three in the morning is when it hits you like a train.” Jean could feel his face in her hair, and his hands rubbing her arm as he tried to comfort her. “You could have told me, you know. I would have stayed with you if you’d asked.” She cautiously lifted an arm and wrapped it around him. “But you’re Jean Innocent, and you’ll never ask, will you?”


	15. Chapter 15

Monday came around far too quickly for Jean’s liking. Sunday passed in a haze of gentle conversation with James Hathaway, carefully avoiding the topic of Thomas, her marriage, her injuries or what he referred to that morning as Jean’s ‘appalling self-worth.’ But avoiding the issue and making excuses not to call her son was simpler and easier than trying to keep out of the way of Robbie Lewis and every other detective in the bloody building. Make up hid the worst of it, but if anyone came too close, they would see the tiny cuts and the slight residual swelling.

At noon, Robbie Lewis knocked on her door. Once invited in, he said to her, “Ma’am, there’s a Ruth van der Broek waitin’ at reception for you. Somethin’ about goin’ for lunch?”

Ruth? What the bloody hell was Ruth doing here? “Okay, thank you, Robbie,” Jean smiled. Knowing Ruth would drag her out of the building whether she liked it or not, Jean picked up her bag, mobile phone and coat, and made sure her scarf covered the fading bruise on her throat.

“Oh, yeah, the bloke on reception said to make sure you know Mar…Marilyn?”

“Marjolein,” Jean corrected him helpfully. She made a mental note to give a lecture on making names remotely pronounceable and spellable at the first opportunity.

“Yeah,” he replied. “She’s with Ruth.”

“I thought she would be,” sighed Jean. “If you need me, call my mobile.” She wanted to add a comment about saving her from an hour-long sermon on the state of her marriage, but refrained. Robbie shot her a kind smile before they parted ways, and Jean went downstairs to the reception area.

A two-year-old girl, taller than the average child her age, sprinted across the room into Jean’s arms before she got the chance to brace herself. “Auntie Jeannie!” she squealed. Jean caught sight of James at the main entrance, probably leaving for lunch or on enquiries; she didn’t fail to notice the smile he wore as Marjolein planted light kisses onto every part of Jean’s face she could reach. Jean passed no comment on the child’s contact with her bruised face. Instead, she dropped Marjolein into a cradled position and kissed her cheek. James laughed quietly and left the building.

Ruth, Jean’s little sister, approached and gave her a one-armed hug around Marjolein. “What are you doing here, Ruth?” she asked.

“Mum and Dad asked me to check on you,” she admitted. Though Ruth often was a pain in Jean’s arse – wild bordering on insane when she was younger – she never would lie to her big sister. “They wouldn’t tell me why. Didn’t anybody ever teach you how to use concealer?” said Ruth, gently blending Jean’s make up into her cheek with her index finger; Jean made a conscious effort not to wince at her touch. “Anyway, it’s been way too long since you got to see Marjolein. Every time you say you’ll visit, one of you ends up working.”

“My poor DI couldn’t say your daughter’s name,” Jean scolded Ruth gently. “I _told_ you that would happen, didn’t I?”

“But it’s a nice name!”

Jean shook her head with a smile, pushing Marjolein’s dirty blonde curls out of her eyes. “Only you would condemn your child to a lifetime of spelling her name out to receptionists and call centres,” she said. “And nobody can ever pronounce it properly.”

Ruth took Jean’s hand and led her out the door from which James had departed. “So, why was Daddy so insistent I come and see you?”

“Oh, you know what he’s like,” Jean waved away the concern. “I’ll bet it’s Mum behind it, anyway. She’s the one who kicks up hell over nothing.”

“Don’t lie, Jean,” Ruth said. “What’s going on?”

“How’s Hendrik?” asked Jean, not particularly wanting to have this discussion at all, never mind with her two-year-old niece sitting on her hip. “How’s his research going?”

“Jean!” Ruth said, stopping Jean with a hand on her arm and spinning her to show her face. “Stop avoiding the question and tell me what the hell has our mum and dad so worried they’ve made me come here and make sure you’re alright!” But as she spoke, Ruth’s eyes – identical to Jean, Mary and Marjolein’s – widened. “What happened to your face?” she asked, staring at the unevenness and little splits in her skin that couldn’t be hidden with make up.

Jean held Marjolein’s head into the crook of her neck and let her little fingers play with the scarf that kept her throat from Ruth’s prying eyes. “Nothing is _going on_ ,” Jean replied.

They didn’t speak again as Jean strapped Marjolein into her car seat and Ruth drove them to a restaurant in town. Jean held the silence as long as possible, because she didn’t want Ruth to know the mess her big sister – the woman Ruth had always looked up to and respected – had made of her life. Ruth had always been the baby of the family, who had been looked after her whole life, first by her parents, then by Jean, and now by her husband, Hendrik. It was the same reason she was going out of her way not to allow Chris to know what his mother had become: she was supposed to watch his back, not the other way around.

Once they were seated, and Marjolein had the crayons and pad of paper she rarely left home without, Jean was struggling for ways to distract Ruth. Instead, she distracted herself by watching Marjolein draw something incomprehensible to Jean, dominated by blue, purple and turquoise in abstract blocks of varying shapes. “What are you drawing, Marjolein?” Jean asked her.

Marjolein looked up from her work, those big eyes stabbing through her aunt like a broadsword. “Auntie Jean’s feelings,” she said. Jean was surprised; Marjolein had shown signs of intuition in the past, but had never outright expressed it in words.

“And how does Auntie Jean feel?” asked Ruth, stroking her daughter’s hair.

Marjolein tilted her head to the side and considered Jean for a moment. “Sad. Scared.”

Ruth looked up from Marjolein, an eyebrow raised at Jean, who squirmed in her seat, wishing it would swallow her up. Marjolein went back to her picture, leaving Jean bare under Ruth’s gaze. “How many times did you help me out when I fell out with Hendrik, or when I was pregnant with Marjolein, or cut up over some boy every other week until I was about thirty?” asked Ruth. “Or just told me to stop being a bloody drama queen when I was being an idiot?”

“I’m your big sister,” Jean reminded her. “That’s my job.”

“Isn’t it about time I returned the favour?” Ruth said.

“It’s really nothing,” Jean sighed. “You know what Mum and Dad are like.”

“Jean.”

“Thomas and I have had…well, it’s just a couple of stupid little domestics,” she muttered, setting her menu down. “That’s all it is. Mum overreacted. Made me stay with one of my sergeants.”

“She wouldn’t do that unless she thought you were in danger, Jean,” Ruth asserted. “Mum might have the same tendency towards being a drama queen as I do, but she wouldn’t make you leave if she didn’t believe you were in harm’s way.”

A waiter stood at the table, ready to take their order as he placed their drinks on the table. “Are you ready to order or would you like a few more minutes?”

“Can I have a kids’ portion of carbonara for van Gogh over here,” smiled Ruth, “and salmon salad for myself, please.”

The waiter nodded and turned to Jean. She wasn’t at all hungry, as her stomach was twisting with increasing anxiety, but Ruth would only bend her ear if she skipped lunch altogether. “I’ll have the pesto genovese, please,” she said.

When the waiter departed, Ruth started to speak again. “Mum said something about panic attacks.” Jean diverted her eyes to Marjolein’s artistry, unnerved to see she hadn’t relented with the abstract drawing of how she thought her Auntie Jean was feeling. “Jean? Are you having panic attacks?”

“I don’t want to talk about heavy things,” Jean said. “I want a nice lunch with my sister and my niece.”

“And you can have that, as soon as you tell me the truth about what’s going on with you.” Ruth’s hand fell on top of Jean’s, rubbing gently. “Did Thomas hit you? I always thought his temper was out of check.”

“I told you. It’s just silly rows.” Jean continued to watch Marjolein, just so she didn’t have to look at Ruth. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll sort it out between the two of us.”

“No, Jean,” groaned Ruth. “If he’s laid a finger on you, please don’t go back there. Even if he hasn’t hit you, if he makes you feel so horrible you’re having panic attacks, just stay away. Don’t let him break you. Don’t let him do that to you.”

Jean closed her eyes for a moment before she finally looked at her sister. Though five years younger than she was, Ruth was far more world-weary; Jean was convinced it came from a lifetime of being ruled by her heart, where Jean would let her head take over. Ruth had made a million mistakes, most of which Jean helped her smooth out. But she learned from them, and Jean got to watch her little sister grow into a woman responsible enough to be trusted with a child. Jean never made those same mistakes. She never fell in love with someone completely wrong for her, and she never went to parties and failed to remember if she’d had sex, or with whom. Ruth had done. She had done that sort of thing many times. It was only in the last ten years she started to calm down, and Jean found herself on the receiving end of panicked phone calls far less often these days.

“We’re as bad as each other. I do his head in.”

“How?”

“I just do,” Jean sighed, pulling the sleeves Marjolein’s pale pink dress up so they wouldn’t be stained by blue crayon. “You know what I’m like, Ruth. Enough to drive a saint to murder.”

Ruth stared at her. “You’re not. You’re brilliant.”

The statement was so sincere that Jean had to smile. It caused a hard lump to form in her throat, too, but she smiled at her sister – and not to distract her. “We’ve hit a rough patch,” admitted Jean, “but we’ll get through it.”

“And what about what happened to your face?” Ruth pressed. Jean was suddenly very glad she had bothered to sort her hair across the healing cut on her head.

“I called him names.”

“And?”

“And he punched me.”

“Good Lord, Jean,” Ruth moaned. “That’s not a rough patch. That’s domestic abuse.”

“I probably shouldn’t have called him a pathetic lowlife,” Jean said fairly. “That was out of order.”

“Not you, you daft bat!” Ruth exclaimed. “Him!” Jean could feel Ruth’s fingers tighten around her hand. “Look, Jean, I’m not going to go all Mum and Dad on you. Christ knows I’ve screwed up too many times to do that without feeling like a hypocrite. I don’t want you to take him back, but I can accept you’ll do what you think you need to do. But I’m on the other end of the phone. The spare key’s in the plant pot. If you need me, I’m here, okay?”

For that, Jean was incredibly grateful. One person who wasn’t judging her or her husband. “Thank you, Ruthie,” she murmured. “That means a lot.”

“You’re welcome,” smiled Ruth. She opened up the backpack she carried with her everywhere, and pulled out a packet of baby wipes and a bib. “Now, let’s get Madam cleaned up before lunch. I wish I hadn’t taught her to love pasta before she worked out how not to just shove her hands in it.”

Jean laughed. “Rookie mistake.”

She took the wipes and cleaned off Marjolein’s hands, and put the bib around her neck. Jean pulled Marjolein onto her lap, taking in her joyful little face and her delicate giggle, and the way she reached out and wrapped Jean’s curls around her tiny fingers. She always had been obsessed with Jean’s hair, even when she was only a few weeks old. Now she was two-and-a-half, though, she had more power in her hands, but also more control, and ran whole sections of Jean’s hair through her fingers. “How _is_ Hendrik’s research going?” Jean asked. She hadn’t only asked to steer the conversation away from her own life; her brother-in-law’s work was interesting.

“There’s currently a massive white board with what might as well be Dutch on it in our living room,” grinned Ruth.

“Ruth, you speak Dutch.”

“I speak Englishwoman’s Dutch, according to Hendrik’s mother,” Ruth said. Jean raised an eyebrow at her. “Okay, well, it might as well be Swedish then,” she rolled her eyes.

Jean chuckled and pressed her face into Marjolein’s hair, inhaling the scent of kids’ shampoo and that incredible smell unique the top of her niece’s head. She almost didn’t put the girl down when their food arrived, but she didn’t think she wanted to see the smirk on Hathaway’s face if she returned to the office covered in Marjolein’s food. “You know Hendrik’s trying to get me to do an A-Level in Physics?” Ruth said as she stabbed her fork into her salad. “Thinks it would be something to bond over.”

Jean tried not to laugh. She really did. But the idea of Ruth studying A-Level Physics was too funny. Ruth’s strengths were in drawing, and music, and sport. She had been a brilliant runner in secondary school. Jean still had anxiety nightmares about trying to get Ruth through her Maths O-Level without their mum and dad ever finding out that Ruth couldn’t do long division. A-Level Physics was Ruth’s idea of Hell on Earth. And as Jean laughed, she found every nerve in her body wanted her to cry. It was the most bizarre thing; she was here with her sister and her niece, relatively cheerful and genuinely laughing, but the confusion still crashed over her. All she could define herself as here was a sister and an aunt, and it did nothing to help her discover who she had to be to save her marriage.

Maybe she had to find something to bond with Thomas over – just not a Physics A-Level.

Ruth dropped Jean back at the station half an hour later than she should have done, and followed her in the door to the reception. Jean picked Marjolein up and pressed a kiss into her cheek, cuddling her tightly. “I love you, Marjolein,” she said. “Be good for Mummy and Daddy, okay?”

“Wuv you, Auntie Jeannie,” Marjolein replied, kissing all over Jean’s face again. She really wished right now that Ruth hadn’t taught Marjolein that one – half the station could see the chief super being kissed halfway to death by a two-year-old.

Jean put Marjolein down and hugged Ruth, closer and firmer than was strictly necessary. “Thank you,” she whispered. “It’ll be okay.”

Ruth held Jean where she could see her, and said, “If it isn’t, if you aren’t, you know where I am. You don’t even have to call. If we’re not in, use the spare key and make yourself at home.” Jean nodded, and Ruth kissed her forehead. “But try and look after yourself. And let your friends in. They’re here, where they can see you, and they can have your back.”

Jean kissed Ruth’s cheek and turned her back on her sister and niece so that she wouldn’t have to watch them walk out of the door. She went up the stairs, still fighting not to cry; she was meant to have enjoyed that. For the most part, bar the conversation about her marriage, she _had_ enjoyed it, unexpected as it was.

Along the corridor to her office, James Hathaway joined her as she walked. “We’re just about to head out to Louisa Blackman’s mother again, ma’am. Inspector Lewis thinks there’s something amiss there.”

“Yeah, fine,” Jean said distractedly. James followed her into her office, remaining silent as she took off her coat. “What is it, James?”

“Your husband showed up.”

Jean froze. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“Lewis…well, he went down to tell him you’re not in the office and not to bother hanging around waiting for you.” Jean turned to face James, who looked like he was dreading the reaction to Robbie’s interference. “We were going to call you, ma’am, but we thought it might be better to leave you with…” he hesitated; Jean knew he didn’t want to label Ruth and Marjolein in case he got it wrong.

“My sister,” she provided. “And my niece.”

James gave a small smile. “Your niece really loves you, doesn’t she?” Jean glared at him, daring him to comment on the Jean Innocent she brought out for Marjolein. “Anyway, Robbie did what he thought was best. In all honesty, I think it was an achievement on his part that he didn’t give him a piece of his mind.”

“I don’t need anyone to fight my corner,” Jean said, “but I appreciate the sentiment.”

There was a knock at the door, and Robbie Lewis poked his head in. “Are you comin’, James, or am I gonna have to wait ‘til next week?”

Jean smirked as James said, “Just coming.”

She caught sight of Robbie and his sheepish expression; he was obviously unsure if he was forgiven for sending her husband away. Though she would have preferred to have been given the opportunity to fix things today, she understood why Robbie didn’t let Thomas loiter. So she reached out and patted his chest, and told him, “Thanks for doing what you think is right for me.”

“Just didn’t want him upsettin’ you, ma’am,” Robbie replied. “You’ve been through enough.”

Jean didn’t argue – it never did any good. With James and Robbie gone, she sat at her desk and took two painkillers, exhausted by the human interaction she had endured but glad she’d seen her family. It gave her the strength required to resist opening the three unread text messages Thomas had sent her, and to turn her phone on silent and ignore it for the rest of the day. It was a temporary measure, but it was buying her time so she could figure out what she could say and do to make being married to Thomas enjoyable. Or, at the very least, bearable.


	16. Chapter 16

Jean Innocent’s phone rang in the car on the way back to James’ house that night. With no energy left to resist, she answered it and put it on speaker to sit on the passenger seat. “What is it, Thomas? I’m driving.”

“Come home, Jean. Please.”

It wasn’t a command. There was no underlying threat to his words. In fact, he sounded like he was pleading with her. “I can’t,” Jean answered him wearily, stopping for a red light. “You find it too easy to lash out, Tom, and it’s becoming problematic for me, not least because the whole bloody station can see someone’s hit me in the face.”

“At least meet me?”

“What for?”

“A drink?”

“Thomas…” she sighed as she put the car into first gear and pulled away from the lights. “Don’t do this.” She was doing her best to take Ruth’s advice, if only because she knew Ruth’s opinion was always honest.

“Please, Jean. Maybe there’s a solution to all this.”

Jean groaned. Hadn’t she been asking herself since Saturday if there was a solution? And hadn’t the only solution been for her to change? She couldn’t change without giving him the chance to prove he could live with her without her ending up black and blue. “Fine,” she said. “Fine. But in the pub, not in the house.”

“We could go to that pub you go to?”

Jean hesitated, but decided Robbie and Laura, if they’d gone at all, would have left their local haunt by the time she and Thomas would end up there. “Yeah, alright. Just let me get dinner, okay?” she asked. There was no way James would let her go out for the night without eating. “And I’ll get changed out of my work clothes.”

“See you at eight?”

“Yeah,” said Jean. She tried to keep her tiredness out of her voice, in case he mistook it for impatience. “I’ll see you then.” She hung up the phone and tried to work out what she needed to say to him, only to find she didn’t have the first bloody clue where to start. Thomas had to be told that the violent reactions had to stop, if for no other reason that other people were starting to notice, and were not as willing to accept his eccentricities as she was. The last thing Thomas needed was Robbie Lewis and James Hathaway breaking down his door.

Parked outside James’ house, Jean realised she was going to have to lie to him. If he knew she was going to see Thomas, he would react horribly. For whatever reason, he had incredibly strong feelings about the whole thing; Jean couldn’t understand why it bothered him like it did. Really, there was no reason for him to upset himself over it.

Her head resting against the steering wheel, Jean recalled their conversation on Saturday night. She had never known the impact she had on James Hathaway when they first started working together. They were misfits. As sociable as Jean was, very few people really understood her. They never understood her commitment to her work and her career, nor could they even begin to comprehend that she was not at all what she seemed to be. But James wasn’t what he seemed either. His front of detachment was deceptive. Indeed, even at work, he let it all invade him. And Jean understood that.

And that, the fact she didn’t brush him aside with the labels ‘posh’, ‘overeducated’ and ‘difficult’, it had made him care about her.

Knuckles rapped on the window, and Jean’s heart pounded in fright as she let her hand rest on her chest in an effort to calm herself. She opened the door to James Hathaway looking down at her. “Are you alright, ma’am?”

“Yeah, fine,” she said. “Listen, I’m going to meet an old university friend later on – she just called to say she’s here to give a special lecture.” James’ face was about ninety percent scepticism. “So I’ll make us dinner and then I’ll go and get cleaned up.”

He wasn’t convinced; that much was written all over his face. But he didn’t poke and prod. His hand fell onto her shoulder and rubbed gently. “Come on,” he said. Jean smiled and gathered her belongings and locked up her car before following James into his home. “What would you like for dinner?” he asked her. She watched as he opened up his cupboards and looked through what he had there. “How about a curry?”

“Okay,” she smiled. “What do you want me to do?”

“Oh, no, it’s fine. You go and shower, get ready to go out. This should be ready in about half an hour,” he said. He was already peeling garlic. Jean didn’t move. “I’ve been cooking for myself since I was a teenager, ma’am, and I don’t think I’ve ever given myself food poisoning.” She frowned slightly as she realised she made him uneasy in his own home. “What’s wrong?” he asked her, finally getting the dry skin off the clove of garlic he had been battling with.

“You’re uncomfortable with me being here, aren’t you?”

“No,” he replied. “What on Earth gave you that impression?”

“You’re calling me ‘ma’am’ in your own bloody house, James!”

His attention was completely diverted from chopping garlic now; he looked down at Jean with a faint smile. “Only because I don’t presume familiarity.”

“I’m in your kitchen while you cook for me!” Jean laughed incredulously.

James shrugged. “Still, you’re my superior officer.”

“Yes, well,” she sighed, “I do have a first name, and you’re perfectly entitled to use it when I’m under your roof.”

“Yes, ma’am,” James said as he picked up an onion, tossed it in the air and caught it in his other hand. He grinned at her, and Jean knew then he was winding her up. To her surprise, he ruffled her hair; maybe he wasn’t uneasy around her at all. “Go and shower. I’ll call you down when dinner’s ready. And _relax_ ,” he advised her sternly. “In fact, take a bath. It’ll do you good.”

* * *

 

When Jean stepped into the pub at eight o’clock, the first thing she did was sweep her eyes over the place to make sure Robbie and Laura were not there. It was bad enough James had insisted on driving her here; she didn’t need the other two on her case for meeting Thomas.

She found her husband sitting at a table secluded in the corner. He looked rather dishevelled – his shirt was creased, he looked like he hadn’t shaved since Saturday, he had a square white dressing over the heel of his hand, and the pallor of his face told her he wasn’t eating or sleeping properly. Thomas stood up to greet her, and Jean instinctively took a step back. But when he reached out and put a hand on her arm, to lean in and kiss her cheek, his touch was soft. “How are you?” she asked him.

“Fine,” he smiled at her. “Burned myself on the bloody cooker, though.”

“Cooking what?”

“Beans on toast,” he said bitterly. His face soon cracked into a smile, and then a chuckle; Jean was relieved to have permission to laugh at his lack of domestic abilities. “I know. Pathetic, eh?”

Jean laughed and took a sip of the wine he had already ordered for her. “Orange juice?” she asked, nodding at his own glass.

“I’m on call for out-of-hours,” he said. “So if this bloody thing goes, I’ll have to run,” he added, lifting his work mobile phone in the air. He put it back down on the table, and put his hand over hers. “We’ve been married too long to let it go down the drain like this, Jean.” She had forgotten how nice it was for him to show her affection. “I love you. You _know_ l love you.”

“I love you, too,” she said quietly. It was entirely true. She had loved him since she was a young woman, and she wasn’t about to stop. “But Thomas, you’ve got to stop hitting me. They’ve started to notice at work. For God’s sake, I work in a building full of detectives – I have even less hope of hiding my injuries than the average person!”

“What have you told Chris?” he asked urgently.

Jean raised an eyebrow for a moment before she replied, “Nothing. I didn’t really want to spoil his weekend by inciting him to come over and give his dad a black eye.”

Thomas sighed and took a sip from his glass. “I never mean to hurt you, Jean, but I was never taught any better.”

“Plenty of people aren’t taught better,” she found herself echoing James, “but they still have it in them to learn not to harm their wives.”

He nodded his head, and interlocked their fingers. “I know. I’m sorry. I promise I’ll try and keep my temper.” Jean drank deeply from her wine glass, encouraged by its calming effect. “Where are you staying?”

“With a work colleague,” she said vaguely.

“Laura?” he said sharply.

Jean considered him for a moment, and decided there was no way he would let their conversation progress without getting an answer to that question. “Hathaway,” she admitted, deliberately using James’ surname to discourage jealousy in Thomas. “He’s been kind.”

“How much does he know?”

“Well, I couldn’t really show up on his doorstep, dragged there by Mum and Dad, with a bruised face, and tell him everything’s hunky-dory, could I?” Jean said tartly. “He’s a sergeant, not an idiot.” Under Thomas’ piercing gaze, Jean elected to tell a minor lie. “He thinks it was a one off, that we had a row that got out of hand.” He wasn’t impressed. That much was obvious. “What was I meant to do, Thomas? I wasn’t getting a choice about leaving, and Hathaway wasn’t going to just let slide the fact his chief super looked like she’d done a couple of rounds with David bloody Haye!”

Thomas was searching her face, and Jean wondered if he had spotted the lie. However, if he had, he didn’t let on. “Alright. Yeah, I suppose you’re right,” he said fairly. “Why did he agree to take you in?”

Jean frowned; that was a strange question. “He’s a kind man. He’d have done the same for Lewis or for Laura if either of them needed a place to rest their head.” To keep her from shaking her head at him, she took a drink of wine.

“So nothing to do with him angling for a quick shag?” he asked her bluntly. Jean choked on her wine. That was _not_ what she had expected him to say. “Or making DI a bit quicker?”

“First, you’ve told me _many_ times that anyone would have to be deaf, blind and stupid to sleep with me,” she reminded him, still coughing lightly after gagging her drink. “And secondly, Hathaway’s not like that. He’s perfectly happy being Lewis’ sergeant.”

“Lewis?” he asked. “Is he the one who sent me away this afternoon? I came to see you but he said you weren’t there and nobody knew when you would be back.”

“Yeah, that’s him,” Jean nodded. “He didn’t see any point in you hanging about for hours.”

Thomas smiled slightly into his glass as Jean drained hers. “Come home, Jean,” he said. “I need you. And you need me.”

Jean let out a soft chuckle. “Do I?” she asked. She knew the answer, but she wanted to know that he knew, and wasn’t just taking a stab in the dark.

“You’re vulnerable,” he said to her, his voice soft. “Do you think I haven’t noticed how much you drink? You’ve got a bit of a problem there.” And as he said it, she looked at his half-full glass of orange juice, and her empty wine glass. She hadn’t even given drinking a second thought, and he had known that she wouldn’t. “I understand it, Jean. But you need me around to watch your back when you’ve been drinking. And I think you should stop heading to the pub after work – those three are a bad influence.” He placed a hand on her wrist, rubbing his thumb against her skin. “I’m the one who understands you, Jean, and you understand me. It’s always been that way.”

She smiled sadly. He was right. Of course he was. “If I come home, Thomas, I need you to stop hurting me. If I cut down my drinking, you’ve got to stop being violent.”

“Yes,” he agreed quickly. “Absolutely.”

His phone rang, and Thomas cursed under his breath. “Hello, Dr. Thomas Innocent speaking,” he said. “Yes. Age? Symptoms? Okay, if you send me a text with the address I’ll be over in half an hour.” He hung up the phone and looked over at Jean. “House call. Diabetic teenager, got to go and try and stabilise her, decide whether or not to send her to the hospital.” Jean smiled. For all his faults, Thomas was a good doctor. “I can drop you off at Hathaway’s if you want.”

“No, it’s okay,” she said. “The walk will do me good.”

“You _are_ coming home, aren’t you?”

“I’ll come over with my things before work in the morning,” she promised. Thomas beamed as he stood up to put his coat on; this was the man she had married. He was still in there, in the way he bent down to press his lips to hers, and in the way his hand fitted perfectly into the crook of her neck.

He left her, and while she walked home, she wondered if he was right about James. Could his kindness be a lie? Did he have an ulterior motive for helping her? Jean hadn’t even questioned that James’ compassion could have been motivated by anything other than an attempt to be her friend and an all-round decent human being.

And it played on her mind the rest of the night. Even while she sat with James reading their separate books, it bothered her until she had to ask. “Why did you let me stay here?” she finally said, closing her book. James looked up, seemingly surprised by the question.

“Because you needed somewhere safe to go,” he said, like it was the simplest thing on the entire planet. “And I offered.”

“But _why_ did you offer?” she pressed him.

“I don’t really understand what you’re getting at, ma’am,” he said. He, too, closed his book and paid her his undivided attention. “We’ve been through this before – I care about what happens to you, and I don’t particularly want to be attending your funeral at any point in the foreseeable future.”

“My…friend,” Jean began carefully, “suggested there might be another motive. That you perhaps were looking to advance your career by getting on my good side, or even…”

“Even what?” asked James. He was irritated. Jean could hear it bubbling in his tone of voice.

“Or even that you were using the situation as an opportunity to sleep with me.”

James stared at her. “You cannot be serious. Is that really what you think of me?” He tossed his book onto the coffee table and pulled his hand over his face, looking like he didn’t have the first clue what to do in this situation. When he took his hand away, he wore an expression of terrible realisation. “That was no university friend you were meeting tonight, was it?” he said. Jean looked down at her fingers. “You were with your husband. He’s the one who’s put this in your head.”

She felt James’ weight shift and knew he was turning to face her, and was left with no choice but to look up at him. And when she did, she knew she could not tell him she was going home in the morning. She was going to have to do that without warning him. At best he would argue with her, and at worst he would flat out stop her.

“Jean,” said James. “There is no hidden agenda. All I want is for you to be safe, sober and reasonably happy. It’s what everyone wants for you, because you’re a dedicated, hardworking, brilliant woman who deserves more than being scared to walk through your front door.”

Not convinced he wasn’t hiding any other motive, Jean nodded her head. Who was she meant to trust more – the sergeant who provided her with refuge and care, or the husband to whom she had been married longer than she hadn’t? It was her unanswerable question, and one that would surely drive her mad.


	17. Chapter 17

When James Hathaway woke the next morning, he got up and made breakfast, radio on, as he always did. The only difference was making it for two. Though she came with a whole host of problems – her personality the least of them – James rather enjoyed having Innocent around. She was someone with whom he could have a proper conversation, and she understood the very basis of who he was in way most others could not.

Finished cooking, he looked at the clock. The last two mornings, Innocent had been down the stairs as soon as she heard breakfast being cooked. But she was bound to be exhausted, so James stood at the bottom of the stairs and shouted, “Breakfast is ready!” Nothing. Christ, he hoped she hadn’t done anything stupid. “Ma’am?!” There was no answer. James climbed the stairs, and called out, “Jean, you need food more than you need a lie-in!”

But as he opened the bedroom door, he realised Jean Innocent was not in this house. Her bed was empty and her belongings had vanished. On the duvet lay a folded sheet of paper, which James sat down to read.

_James,_

_Don’t worry – everything is fine. I have decided to go home, and left at about 5am so I could take my things back to the house, and see Thomas before he goes to work. It’ll be okay. He promised last night that he will try and control his temper. I promised to stop drinking so much. He knows me, and he can look out for me. Don’t worry yourself._

_I left without telling you because I knew you wouldn’t approve. You might even have tried to stop me. I didn’t want to have that conversation. This is easier. It isn’t that I don’t appreciate how kind you have been. I’m lucky you decided to take me in when my mum and dad made me leave home. But I know you’re scared and I know you don’t trust Thomas. You would have tried to talk me out of it. We both know that because we both know, for whatever barmy reason, you care and you want what you think is right for me._

_Please don’t be angry, James. I know your feelings on the subject but it’s my decision. And if you’re right and it turns out to be a mistake, then it’s my mistake to make._

_I’m sure I’ll see you at work._

_Jean_

James leaned forwards, his head in his hands. He’d had an awful feeling she might go back. He just never thought she would slip out at five in the morning without telling him.

And he _was_ angry. He was angry that such an intelligent woman could be so blind to the road she was taking. There was no doubt in James’ mind that Thomas would bring Jean to harm again. The man seemed to get inside her head last night – why else would she question James on his motives for looking after her? He was angry that there was nothing he could do to help her if she went back into that house, and that she was going to have to get hurt again if she was to see enough truth to be able to walk away from Thomas Innocent.

There was so little he could do about it. He was helpless. If not for the fact it might cause another bout of violence and that Innocent would hate him for it, he would have been over at her house right now, telling her exactly what he thought of her marriage. But he couldn’t. He knew he couldn’t. He still had to work with her, and he wanted to be able to help her when she eventually needed it.

He leaned over and picked the landline up from its cradle, and did what was best: called Robbie Lewis. “Hello,” Robbie answered. James could hear the radio in the background.

“Sir, Innocent’s gone,” he said. There was no point in beating about the bush. Indeed, there was probably no time for that. “She left a note to say she’s gone home. Back to her husband.”

“Damn it,” cursed Robbie. “Is there no way to get her out?”

“I don’t think so. It would only make things worse to go over there. She met with him last night.”

“Why didn’t you stop her?!”

“She lied to me. Said she was meeting an old university friend. I didn’t realise it was him she was meeting until she came back and spouted some nonsense about possible ulterior motives for me letting her stay with me,” James explained.

There was a brief silence before Robbie finally sighed and said, “Well, it sounds like he’s doin’ his best to cut her off from you, if he’s tried to make her believe you’re not just lookin’ out for her. We can’t let her go back without a way to contact us. It’s bound to go bloody wrong. How’s she got to the rank of chief super and not learned how these things end?!”

James stood up and gathered his clothes together, abandoning the idea of breakfast for a shower instead. “I think she really does believe he wouldn’t seriously injure her,” James said. “I’m not saying he _will_ , sir, but it would be unwise to rule it out as a possibility.” As he turned on the shower and left the water to settle its temperature, a sudden idea struck him. “Sir, I’m going to be a bit late in.”

“Had an idea?”

“Yes. I’ll show you when I get to the station. I just need to make a short detour on my way there.”

* * *

 

Jean Innocent looked up from the file she was signing at the sound of a knock to her office door. “Come!” she called.

In walked James Hathaway, Robbie Lewis, and Laura Hobson. God. They hadn’t even managed to leave her until one o’clock. James put a cup of tea, a filled roll and a bar of chocolate on her desk as he had taken to doing. “Thank you,” she mumbled to James, unsure why he was still dong these things for her after her questions-stroke-accusations last night. Not to mention running out on him at five in the morning. She looked up at them all as they stood in a huddle in front of her desk. “Is this an ambush?” she smiled.

“Of sorts,” said James. “We’ve come to put a safeguard in place, ma’am.”

“A safeguard for whom?”

James shook his head in what appeared to be ill-disguised exasperation; he generally did a fairly good job of hiding that from her at work.

It was Robbie who answered her question. “For you, ma’am. I think we’ll all rest a bit easier knowin’ you’ve got somethin’ you can fall back on if things get out of hand.”

Jean fixed her face into what she prayed was a kind but firm smile. “I don’t need any help, but thank you for the offer.”

Laura stepped forwards. It never boded well when Laura Hobson wore that expression of determination. “You might not need it now but who’s to say that the next time he lashes out,” Laura said, “and believe me, he _will_ eventually lash out, won’t be the one that hospitalises you? Or worse? None of us want you to be in danger without a way out.”

“Which is why I got this,” James cut in, holding up a tiny mobile phone. “I’ve set up a speed dial. Press and hold one, you’ll get emergency services. If you’re in a position where you can’t talk to an operator, hold down two and it’ll call my mobile.”

“You’ll get mine on three,” added Robbie.

Laura raised her hand slightly and said, “I’m four. The pathology lab is five, in case I’m away from my mobile.”

“And if your husband looks through the phone, the only things he’ll find are our phone numbers under the names of Chief Constable, Head of Forensics and Head of Intelligence,” James elaborated. As averse to this plan as Jean was, she had to admit James was no idiot. “If he does find it and starts asking questions, you can say it’s your work phone and everyone of your rank has been asked to carry it. But if you make sure you charge it here and you keep it in your pocket, it’s small enough that he’ll probably never find it.”

Jean got to her feet and stood in front of them; she was grateful to have the added height of heeled shoes back in her arsenal. “This is mad,” she told them. “Utterly insane. Nothing is going to happen to me that would require this level of planning.”

James looked up at the ceiling and rubbed his hand down over his face for a moment. “You know, for a woman who is so intelligent, you can be quite unbelievably stupid sometimes!” he snapped furiously. Jean was taken aback by the faultline in his professional armour.

“James,” Laura cautioned him, as Jean set a glare on him.

“I’m sorry, but what on Earth makes you believe you are safe while living under the same roof as a man who has you beaten black and blue?!” he demanded. Jean tilted her head a little, trying to work out where this anger had come from. “There’s no reason at all for any of us to trust any promise he makes.”

Jean couldn’t understand why they were so wound up. Thomas had apologised for his behaviour, and had sworn this was an end to it. Surely they knew she would not have gone back to him if he had not shown remorse for the mess he had helped to cause? “It’ll be okay,” she tried to reassure them. “We had words last night. He says he’ll try and keep a lid on his temper.”

“He’ll be putting a lid on his own coffin if he lays another hand on you,” muttered Laura. Jean raised her eyebrows; when did Laura Hobson start caring about any of this?

She leaned back against the edge of her desk, surveying the sight in front of her. James was furious and frustrated, and not hiding it very well. Laura was more resolute than angry. And Robbie, well, he just had that look of kindness and sadness he wore whenever he thought someone needed help. Jean groaned. “If I take the bloody phone and keep it on me while I’m at home, will you get off my back?” she asked. “Or at least stop trying to convince me the sky’s going to fall as soon as I get home tonight?”

Robbie smiled gently and gave her the charger, while James laid the phone itself onto the palm of her outstretched hand. “Where’s your car, ma’am?” asked Robbie. “Just, I didn’t see it when I got in this mornin’. Did it break down again?”

“Oh, no,” smiled Jean. “No, Thomas dropped me off this morning. He’s going to pick me up when he finishes work.”

Laura and James exchanged a dark look which Jean chose to ignore.

“Don’t be afraid to use that,” Robbie urged, pointing at the phone in her hand. “It’s there to protect you, ma’am.”

“I can be trusted not to put myself in danger,” Jean reminded them.

“It’s not you we don’t trust,” James replied sharply.

“Robbie, Laura, give me a moment with Sergeant Hathaway, would you?” she asked, never taking her eyes off of James, even as the other two left. Once they were alone, Jean set about James. “Drop the attitude, James,” she ordered him. “Petulance doesn’t become you.”

“Petulance?!” repeated James, his voice louder than Jean had expected. “You think that’s what’s going on?!” Jean put some distance between them, stepping to the side and making him turn to face her with a few more feet between them. “I’m not being petulant! This is what people look like when you sneak out of their house at five in the morning to put yourself back into an abusive household! This is how people react when you lie to them, and ask them if they’re only giving you shelter to advance their career, or get you into bed!”

Jean closed her eyes. “I asked you not to be angry, James. It doesn’t achieve anything and it just makes you feel worse.”

James laughed. It was a harsh, bitter sound, and it fractured the air like it was made of glass. She didn’t need to open her eyes; she already knew the face that came with that noise. “You have no idea, do you? The stress of knowing you’re in that house, in danger every night?”

She opened her eyes and looked up at James. “I don’t want you to be stressed.”

“And I don’t want you to be living with someone who finds it so easy to use you as a punchbag.”

It was like the anger simply evaporated out of him. Jean could suddenly see pure fear in him. She hadn’t realised just how worried he was for her. And then she realised – “You’re not just angry. You’re afraid. You’re angry _because_ you’re afraid.”

He looked down at the floor. Why did he do this to himself? She never would understand why he was tying himself in knots over someone as worthless as she was. “I can’t bear the thought of what he might do to you if he snaps,” James admitted. “I know he said he won’t, but I can’t believe that. Not when I’ve already seen what he’s done to you, both physically and mentally.”

Her heart filled with sadness and guilt, and the strangest fondness for the man in front of her. She reached out a hand, and when he took it, she stepped forward and rested her head against the point where his arm met his chest. “I’m so sorry,” she said into the edge of his chest. “I’m sorry I’ve pulled you into a difficult situation, and I’m sorry it’s causing you anxiety and fear.”

James’ free arm wrapped gently around Jean’s body. “It was my decision to care,” he told her. She squeezed his hand and put her arm around him. “But thank you for trying to comfort me.”

“If I need to use that phone, I promise I will,” she said quietly. The urge to resist that safeguard had left her, now that she could see what had driven James to devise it in the first place. It wasn’t fair to leave him scared after letting him see the worst of what might happen behind her closed doors. Even if she didn’t want it, even if she thought it was overzealous and unnecessary, if it gave James some peace of mind, she would keep it with her.

“Thank you,” James said as held her a little tighter. “If you’re hell bent on trying again with him, I just need you to have something that might keep you safe if it goes wrong.”

And for the first time, she understood that – he didn’t just want her to be safe. He needed her to be safe. It was just an unfortunate fact of Jean Innocent’s life that danger was comfortable and familiar, and safety was a lonely and frightening stumble into the unknown.


	18. Chapter 18

She seemed happy.

The cuts and the bruises faded, though James Hathaway often saw the ghosts of her invisible scars in the way she stepped back from frustrated colleagues, and in the way she still failed to believe in herself when she thought nobody could see her. She was not healed. He was simply watching her put plasters over gaping holes and hope it would do the job.

And this relationship that seemed to make her so happy was still controlling. Very rarely did Jean Innocent make her own way home from work these days; her husband dropped her off and collected her almost every day. She didn’t socialise with anyone. The only time James got to see her was in this building. Nearly a month had passed since she had gone back home, and she didn’t seem to so much live her life as she did survive by her husband’s rules.

On Innocent’s birthday, she appeared to be upbeat and in good spirits. She wore a necklace James had never seen before, and he had to assume it was a gift from her husband or her son. The first chance James got to speak to her properly was as they both headed out for lunch. “Happy birthday, ma’am,” he said on the stairs.

She laughed. “Yeah, another adjective to add to stupid, dull and ugly – _old_.”

James didn’t laugh; it was the proof that even if Thomas Innocent hadn’t lifted his hands recently, it was merely because he didn’t need to do so. “You are none of those things, ma’am,” he asserted. “As for old…you’re younger than Inspector Lewis.”

“You say that like it’s an achievement,” she scoffed. And then something came over her and she looked at her feet, shuffling them until her toes were directly in line with James’. When she looked up again, she said, “I’m sorry, James. You were wishing me a happy birthday, and that was extremely nice of you. I shouldn’t be such an old misery guts.”

“You’re not,” James said. He handed her a small lilac box he had been hiding behind his back. “I didn’t know what to give you, given the circumstances.”

“You didn’t have to give me anything, James,” Jean said softly. “You’ve done more than enough for me as it is.” But she opened it anyway, and smiled when she took out a small blue leather bound notebook and pen. Innocent stared up at him questioningly.

“You write so many notes to us, I thought you could write some to yourself when it gets difficult,” he explained. He watched her open the front cover, cursing the heat in his cheeks that told him he had turned red; maybe it had been a mistake to write down, ‘Intelligent, brave, funny, competent, beautiful. Don’t forget it.’ “And it’s small – you can hide it from your husband, or keep it here.”

The way she gazed into his face unnerved James slightly, for he could not possibly know what she was thinking. “Those are the things you said the night before I left,” she said as she set her gift back into its box. So she did remember. “That was really…it was thoughtful. Thank you.” James thought he heard her voice catch, but she recovered with a smile and led him down the stairs, slipping the lilac box into her coat pocket. “Especially since I know you’re not happy with things.”

At the staff entrance they stopped again, and Innocent reached up and kissed his cheek. “You’re welcome, ma’am,” he replied. He let his arm fall around her waist and pulled her close for a moment. Though she was apparently happy and uninjured, James knew everything was still wrong. Innocent just didn’t realise it. Her hand rested on his side, and he dropped his head to say into her hair, “Do you still keep the phone with you?”

“It’s always in my pocket, James, I promise.”

“Thank you,” he sighed. Hoping she wouldn’t really feel it, he closed his eyes and pressed a gentle kiss into her hair; her grip on his body tightened momentarily.

The doors swung open, and a voice boomed, “Are you coming, Jean, or am I taking myself for a birthday lunch?”

James let go of Innocent, looking up from her head to find a rather large man facing him. Though shorter than James, Thomas Innocent was burly and strong, and thoroughly capable of doing fatal damage to a woman as small as his wife if he had a mind to. “This is the staff entrance, Thomas. You can’t come in this way,” Innocent said through a smile. “We need to know who’s in the building if they aren’t staff. That’s what the reception is for.”

He didn’t fail to notice the slightest of tremors in her voice, and that she turned to fully face her husband. It was like she had trained herself to never be physically vulnerable when he was unhappy. Not the basis of a good marriage.

Thomas shot her a glare and then turned to James. “You must be the only one of the Three Amigos I haven’t met yet.”

James held Thomas’ stare and reluctantly offered his hand. “Sergeant James Hathaway,” he said. “I was just wishing Chief Superintendent Innocent a happy birthday.”

“Thomas Innocent,” he introduced himself, like James couldn’t tell who he was by his demeanour. “Chief Superintendent Innocent’s husband.”

It was the tone of voice. It screamed possession and control, and James would have loved nothing more than to wipe the smug, arrogant smirk off his face with a smack. But that would frighten Jean and anger Thomas, which would surely end up painful for Jean, so James forced that impulse down. He chose to say nothing more, because he had nothing even remotely polite to say to this man. The one thing he didn’t want to do was make life harder than it needed to be for Jean Innocent.

Thomas put his arm around Jean’s waist and took her away. She looked back over her shoulder as they walked through the door. It was the first time he had ever seen her wear an expression that cried out, ‘Help me.’

* * *

 

“It was absolutely nothing, Thomas,” Jean sighed for the third time since leaving the police station, not even looking up from her menu this time. “Sergeant Hathaway was just saying ‘Happy birthday’, like half the bloody CID has done this morning. I swear, one person finds out your birthday and the whole world gets to know.”

Thomas set his menu down. “That was more than a ‘Happy birthday’ between colleagues.”

“Alright,” Jean said, tossing the menu aside impatiently. “Fine. James Hathaway is my friend. So is Robbie Lewis, and so is Laura Hobson. For whatever unfathomable reason, they enjoy my company. God knows the police force is a lonely habitat if you don’t befriend the people you work with. I’ve told you that so many times.”

He wasn’t going to leave it alone. She knew that face, and written all over it was that he remained jealous and angry. “Nobody hugs like that unless it means something.”

“It’s friendship,” replied Jean wearily. “That’s all, Thomas. I promise you, there is nothing more than that between me and James Hathaway.”

“Bullshit.”

“You’re being ridiculous. Is it so hard to let me have a nice birthday?” she asked. How could it be that James had been so lovely to her, and her own husband seemed to be sabotaging any enjoyment she might get out of today? It was a rare moment of clarity, to see the ugliness in Thomas. Right now, because he had it in his head she was sneaking around with Hathaway, he did not want her to be happy. Indeed, she could not be certain he ever did want her to be happy. “You always do this, Thomas. Anything that might bring me a little bit of joy, you just _have_ to ruin it, don’t you?”

In the month since she had made the decision to go back to Thomas, things had been calm. On the surface, they might even have looked good. And now, in the horrendous twenty-twenty vision of frustrated hindsight, Jean could see she wasn’t in control. Nowhere near it. When she walked out that door to go for lunch with her own husband, she had prayed to Heaven and begged to Hell that James would see that she wanted him to intervene. From the moment Thomas had invaded her place of work and seen her with James in the space that belonged to them and not Thomas, she had known this lunch was doomed.

“Don’t be so stupid,” snapped Thomas. “I’m taking you out. I got you that necklace. I let you call your mother and that moron you call your sister.”

“Ruth isn’t a moron.”

“‘Course she’s a moron,” Thomas smirked. “She’s the only person I know with fewer braincells than you. Although I’d sooner shag her than you.”

Jean felt her mouth fall open. “Why are you doing this, Thomas?” she asked. There had to be a reason, surely to Christ, for this attitude of his.

He reached out and took her hand. For a moment, the briefest of moments, Jean thought he was going to apologise. He had learned that skill recently. But his hand slid down hers until his fingers were on her left wrist; he squeezed it hard between the knuckles of his thumb and forefinger, bruising the bone and the flesh.

“Thomas!” she hissed at him.

He twisted her arm, still holding her hand at the table’s surface, until she thought it might snap; Jean struggled against him but he was too strong. “You’re acting like a spoilt bitch,” he whispered, his tone deadly. “Stop showing us up and _behave yourself_.”

As suddenly as he gripped her, he released her. Five seconds later, a waiter stopped at their table. “Are you ready to order or would you like a few more minutes?”

Jean downed the last of the wine she wasn’t strictly meant to have and said, “I’m so sorry, but I have to go back to work.”

Thomas frowned at her. “I’ll drive you.”

“I’d rather walk.”

The watchful stare of a nameless waiter gave Jean the security to pick up her bag and her coat and walk out. She didn’t let him see that he had managed to sprain her wrist with his bare hands, or that she felt sick, or that her head was spinning. Her left hand resting on her right shoulder, the way her mum always taught her, Jean made the short journey back to the police station, keeping her head down as she stalked through corridors full of people who would be able to see she was shaken if she dared look up.

Jean shed her coat and bag and sat down at her desk, her head in her right hand while she tried to ignore the pain in her left. For a distraction, she opened up the files she needed to fill out and mentally prepared herself for the task, until she picked up the pen and actually tried to write; her left wrist would not tolerate such exercise. Had he done this deliberately? Had he hurt her knowing she was left-handed and would struggle the rest of the day?

Defeated, she dropped the pen back down onto the desk and tried to compose herself. But it did no good. Why had she antagonised him like that? He had been doing so well; her frustrated picking at his imperfect behaviour wasn’t at all justified. After all, he had been trying his best until she pushed him one step too far.

How could she have been so stupid? So selfish? Couldn’t she have just bitten her tongue and got on with it?

How foolish she had been to miss his anger, to think he had reached for her hand in apology. She knew better. Of course she knew better. It was, she realised with a knife of guilt and self-loathing in her heart, her own fault.

There was a knock at the door, and Robbie Lewis walked into her office. “Ma’am, we were just wonderin’ if you wanted to come for a drink with us tonight. Celebrate your birthday, you know.”

Jean forced a smile. That was a plan. If Thomas could render her incapable of writing for the afternoon, she could drink with her friends. It didn’t matter that she earned what she got – so did he. It was her warning to him, that she could break her promise just as easily as he could. “Yeah, that sounds nice. But we have to leave here before six. And I’ve no car,” she added, remembering Thomas had taken her to work this morning.

“Good,” smiled Robbie. “I thought you were goin’ out for lunch with your husband?”

“Oh, we had a bit of a disagreement,” she admitted, conscious of her hand raised to her shoulder as she said it. “I left him in the restaurant to work out what he’s done wrong.”

It was completely predictable that Robbie’s eyes raked over her for signs of harm, but he didn’t seem to notice that she was trying to keep the pressure off her wrist. Maybe she had succeeded in doing it casually. “So you’ve not eaten?”

“No.”

“I was just about to go out meself,” he said. “Why don’t you come with me? Get a sandwich or somethin’?”

Jean hesitated. The wine she had was best not left to sit on an empty stomach, at least at work, but there was nothing to say that what Robbie didn’t see now would remain unseen. But sense won out, and Jean said, “Yeah, okay.”

Robbie took her coat off its stand and held it out for her as she got up from her desk. “Happy birthday, ma’am.”

She rolled her eyes. “Thank you,” she replied.

They walked to a nearby café, and sat with sandwiches in relative silence, until Robbie broke it. “You hurt your hand?” he asked, nodding over to her left side. “You’ve barely moved it.”

“Oh, yeah, sprained my wrist,” she said casually.

Perhaps it was that laidback tone that gave her away. Maybe it was just that Robbie wasn’t thick. “Hmm. Nobody sprain it for you? ‘Cause you were fine this mornin’.” Jean bit into her sandwich so she wouldn’t have to answer, but Robbie seemed to take that as an answer in itself. “You said he’d stopped this carry on.”

“He has. I just wound him up in the restaurant, that’s all.”

“So he decided to sprain your wrist in retaliation?” Robbie challenged. “Very bloody grown-up.”

The indignance in his voice, to know it was given on her behalf, broke the last of the wall. Jean felt tears fall hot down her face, not because Thomas had hurt her, but because Robbie was so cross about it. He was another friend she did not at all deserve.

She fumbled about for a napkin and dabbed around her eyes, doing all she could not to smudge her make up. “Oh, Jean, it’s okay,” Robbie said. She felt like an idiot – first for trusting Thomas would not harm her again, and then for pushing him towards it. That, combined with Robbie’s treatment of her, forced up a general sadness that was made up of so many things Jean would never be able to deconstruct it. “You’re alright, aren’t you? You’re out with me, and he’s not here.” He rubbed her arm, and Jean was ashamed to find comfort in it. “And anyway, me mam always said it’s unlucky to cry on your birthday.”

Jean laughed through her tears. It was bizarre, and probably wrong, but she couldn’t help it. Robbie just had that knack of making even the most miserable person smile. At that moment, a young waitress – probably a student – stopped at their table with two slices of chocolate cake. Sticking out of one was a lit birthday candle. Jean shook her head while she laughed, the last of her tears banished by embarrassment, amusement and appreciation. “What the hell is this, Robbie?”

“Your friend mentioned it’s your birthday, so we dug out a candle,” grinned the waitress as she sat the plates down onto the table. “Happy birthday.”

She blew out the candle, unable to force back a giggle at them. “Thank you,” she said, to both Robbie and the waitress.

“Not a problem at all,” the waitress smiled, sauntering back towards the kitchen.

“You know what else me mam always said?”

“Enlighten me,” Jean said, pushing her empty sandwich plate away.

Robbie held up a clean fork and said, “‘Cake will cure all manner of ailments – even a broken heart.’”

Jean grinned. “I’m pretty sure modern science contradicts every word of that, but I’m not going to pass up an excuse for chocolate cake.”


	19. Chapter 19

It was strange, being back in a pub with her friends. Jean had almost forgotten that even though she was uncertain about everything else, there was a solace in rebellion.

When Laura Hobson joined them, the first thing she did was beckon Jean to the women’s bathroom. “Happy birthday,” smiled Laura.

“Thanks,” replied Jean, for what had to have been about the twentieth time today. “But you didn’t need to drag me in here for that.”

Laura sighed as she surveyed Jean, like she was deciding what to say. “Robbie told me Thomas hurt you again,” she admitted carefully, “and I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Jean leaned back against the wall. “It’s just my wrist, and it’s only sprained,” she said, trying to soothe Laura’s worry. “I’d know if it were broken. Christ, _he_ would have known if he’d broken it. The man’s a doctor.”

“Does James know?”

“Not unless you or Robbie have told him.”

“We didn’t.”

“Why would it matter if he did know, anyway?” grumbled Jean, circling her foot for something to look at apart from Laura’s face.

“You know he has strong feelings about this. He hates the thought of you getting hurt.”

Jean looked up at Laura and frowned. “What are you trying to say?”

“I’m trying to say tell him what happened now, where we can talk it through, instead of him finding out when you’re drunk and can’t stop him breaking your husband’s nose.”

“James wouldn’t do that.”

“I’m starting to think he might do that for you.”

It was like puzzle pieces clicking into place. Jean always wrote off how much James seemed to care. She didn’t think it ran very deep; indeed, she almost managed to tell herself it was a sense of justice more than anything else. But it wasn’t that at all. She was important to him. He had even tried to explain that, and she had brushed it off as him saying nobody else understood him. That wasn’t what he had been saying. He had been trying to tell her she understood him better than anyone, and that he held her dear. How could she have underestimated what he had been saying?

The realisation of just how much James cared, and that it wasn’t for the reasons she had told herself, caused Jean’s stomach to twist into a tight knot. It was problematic at best, disastrous at worst. Her hand rested upon her abdomen; it didn’t undo the knot, but at least she was doing something to try and fix it. “And what do you suggest I tell him?” Jean asked sharply, trying to disguise the fact that she felt like she was going to throw up. “I didn’t tell Robbie – he deduced the basics of the situation for himself.”

“You need to be honest with us, including James, because the day might come when you’re in very real danger. It’s a sprained wrist this time; next time it might be a broken neck,” she said in earnest. “We’re not going to bully you into our way of thinking, but I think we’d rather know the truth, even if it’s ugly.”

Jean nodded her head slowly. “You’re right,” she sighed, holding her hands up. “You’re right. Of course you are.”

“I’m not saying any of this to upset you,” Laura said gently. “Really, I’m not. I just don’t want to see you on my steel slab anytime soon.”

“I’m not going to die.”

“You can’t make that promise, Jean.”

She put her fingers over her mouth for a moment, to hold back her emotions; she didn’t want Laura to see that her bluntness had hit a nerve. But there was no hiding that. This whole experience of having friends who knew her life wasn’t perfect was a learning curve. There were times she didn’t have full control of her emotions and her anxieties, and that was terrifying. That they ever got to see it was embarrassing. Or it would have been, if they were not the people who could accept her vulnerability. They accepted the things about Jean that she could not.

It was so odd – it was nonsensical, really – that Jean Innocent wanted nothing more or less than to be held. She stepped forward and put her arms around Laura; Jean felt her hesitate for a second but Laura got over it quickly, and held her close.

The world had come back to crush Jean today. If things were to go back to normal, she could not flounder for survival alone. Even if she didn’t deserve their care or compassion, Jean knew now that when they directly tried to help her, it did no good to fight them. That way destruction lay. She could see that while she stood here, safe and supported. What was more difficult was remembering it when she felt broken and alone.

They returned to their table – either Robbie or James had ordered them drinks in their absence. “James,” Laura began cautiously, “we’ve got something to tell you, but you have to stay calm, alright?”

Jean saw the warning look Robbie shot Laura, and she was sure Laura did too. “What’s going on?” James asked; his tone was full of worry, and his face betrayed the conclusions her doom he was jumping to.

Laura looked at Jean encouragingly, telling her silently to spit it out. Jean sighed and said, “I fell out with Thomas at lunch.”

James sat up straighter and turned his head to look down at Jean. “And by ‘fell out’, you mean he abused you.”

Jean held up her left hand. “Sprained wrist, that’s all.”

He paused for a moment, taking a drink from his glass, before he said, “If I get my hands on him, I’ll do more than sprain his wrist.” Jean looked down into her wine glass. “Have you got the phone we gave you?”

“I told you earlier, James, it’s always with me. I promised you I would use it if I thought it was going too far.”

“It already has gone too bloody far,” grumbled Robbie. Laura rubbed his shoulder soothingly, as if reminding him it was not something to be forced. Under the table, James put his hand around Jean’s right, squeezing gently. She looked up at him, suddenly overcome again by how much she meant to him. She wished she had really listened to him that night he had told her. In fact, she wished she had paid more attention in general – she would have seen it long before now if she had.

Jean kept the conversation steered well away from the subject of her marriage; she didn’t particularly wish to think about it all, never mind talk about it and get everyone else upset. It was a little odd, how the idea of it all upset James and Robbie far more than it did Laura. Or maybe Laura was just better at putting her feelings to one side.

She was lucky it was Friday night, because Jean didn’t think she wanted to work with the hangover she was setting herself up for. It was alright for Laura, sitting there with her lemonade with the excuse of being the on-call pathologist for the night. But Jean was not averse to getting drunk, even if she dreaded the hangover; she just had to pace herself. It was rebellion against Thomas and togetherness with colleagues, and she hadn’t realised how much she had missed it during the weeks she had been keeping her promise.

She was laughing heartily as Robbie told a story about his secondary school History teacher, who liked to hang from the doorframe as he taught, when a familiar voice interrupted them. “Jean, I thought we agreed you wouldn’t do this anymore?”

Jean looked up from Robbie to find Thomas standing at their table, James between them. She bit back the retort that they had also agreed he would not bring her to bodily harm; he probably wouldn’t take kindly to it and, despite her reluctance, she did have to go home to him at some point. “It doesn’t do any harm to go out with your friends once in a while,” she asserted, suddenly very aware that she was tipsier than she thought.

“We’re going home,” Thomas said.

James stood up. “Superintendent Innocent will go home when she wants to,” he said. His voice was deafeningly quiet, his face inches away from Thomas’. “ _If_ she wants to.”

“James,” Jean cautioned him.

Thomas laughed. “What the hell are you talking about? She’s _my_ wife, and she’ll come home now before she ends up plastered.”

“You are nothing but a bully,” snarled James.

The anger spilled into every part of Thomas, and Jean knew what was coming. “Leave him, man,” Robbie urged James, whose hands shook at his sides.

“He’s not worth it, James,” warned Laura.

Unable to allow her husband or her friend to throw a punch, Jean got to her feet and forced herself between them. It was James she faced, because she needed him to understand. “Don’t, James. It’s all fine. I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Ma’am-”

“It’s okay.” James wore a look of defiance, but Jean could feel Thomas’ impatience even with her back to him. God, how she hated not being able to see what he was doing. “Could you pass me my bag and coat, please?”

He obeyed, clearly unwillingly, and helped her into her coat. She surreptitiously pressed her hand to her trouser pocket, trying to reassure him that if she needed help, she had the means to ask for it. There was no way of knowing if he got the message. Robbie and Laura looked on in what appeared to be distaste, so she tried to get the same message to them. “Goodnight,” she said to them. Thomas lost his patience and dragged her out of the pub by the arm before anyone could answer her. “Let go!” she said, struggling against his grip. She didn’t feel tipsy anymore – she had her wits about her. “Let me go!”

But he put her in the car and drove her home; Jean was sure she nearly put her heel through the footwell in temper. She didn’t know why she was so furious. She had no justification for it, apart from the fact she was expected to keep her promises even when Thomas broke his. It pissed her off. And it pissed her off that he had almost provoked James Hathaway into doing something he would later regret. Or maybe James wouldn’t have regretted it. Jean was just glad they would never get to know.

She didn’t speak to him. Instead she went straight upstairs and changed into trainers, jeans and a loose fleece, making sure she had both her phones in the pockets and that their presence wasn’t obvious. Tonight, she was taking the prospect of Thomas’ temper very seriously. It would be foolish not to.

Suddenly hungry, possibly because she was full of adrenaline, and she was alert and angry, Jean opened the fridge and took out a pot of strawberry yoghurt. Thomas was cooking pasta; Jean left him to it. This, him not speaking to her, was much better than the usual insults that flowed so freely from his mouth. In her effort to get the lid off the yoghurt pot without aggravating her sprained wrist, Jean spilled some of the contents onto her hands. “For goodness’ sake!” she muttered, looking down at her fleece to find it had splattered across her chest. She reached for a tea towel and wiped it away, and went to the sink, pulling up her sleeves to set about washing her hands.

A pot landed on her left forearm, the base pressing down into her skin with its extreme heat. “Thomas!” she shouted. Jean pulled her arm away and pushed him back, knocking the pasta in its boiling water to the floor. “What on Earth did you do that for?!”

It was painful. Extremely painful. Her skin had gone beyond red – it was shiny and blistered, and she could see the top layer of skin had been burned away in places. It needed looked at by a doctor who wasn’t out to do her more harm. “Let that be a reminder,” he pointed down at her arm, “of who is in charge around here. You might be the big shot in that bloody station of yours, but everywhere else, you are _nothing_. And if you ever tell any of your stupid mates about our relationship again, I will make damn sure you regret it.”

Jean tried to ignore the searing pain in her arm, and headed for the door. She grabbed her coat, her bag, and her keys.

“Where do you think you’re going?!” he shouted after her.

“A and E!” she snapped. “This needs medical attention and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you anywhere near me!”

“You’re over the limit.”

“I don’t care.”

“You will if I call the cops. That’s disciplinary stuff, that is.”

Jean hesitated, and then said, “I’ll walk into town and get a taxi.”

“I’ll drive you to A and E.”

“No.” Jean opened the door and left without another word; she knew he wouldn’t follow her, for he would not cause a scene on the street. He hadn’t expected anyone to stand up to him in the pub. Jean knew he wouldn’t have come for her if he thought he would be met with hostility. That, she realised, was part of the reason he was so enraged.

Once she was a safe distance from the house, only another few minutes’ walk to the pub she had just been hauled out of, she stopped and let herself feel the pain in her arm, keeping it raised at the elbow. If what he had done to her legs had been sore, this was bloody agony. With her right hand, and some difficulty as that arm had her coat and bag hanging from it, she fumbled for her phone and searched for Laura Hobson’s number. “Hello?” answered Laura.

“Can you take me to A and E?” asked Jean, wincing as she spoke. The air hitting that burn was doing nothing but antagonising it, and her. “I’m over the limit and there’s been…well, a bit of a cookery accident.”

“We’re still in the pub,” Laura said. “Where are you?”

“I’m a couple of minutes away,” she replied. “I’ll meet you in the pub.” She didn’t give Laura the opportunity to reply before hanging up. It took a surprising amount of energy to hold herself up and walk.

What should have taken her about three minutes took her closer to six, but she eventually reached the table she had been sitting at. “What’s wrong?” Laura asked, while James and Robbie watched and listened carefully. Jean held out her arm for Laura to look at the blistered and broken skin of her arm. “Oh, God,” gasped Laura, turning Jean’s arm lightly by the unburnt wrist. “What the hell happened?”

“That doesn’t matter,” Jean quickly brushed the question aside. She could _feel_ James’ fury next to her, and didn’t want to fuel any desire he might have to go and tear her husband limb from limb. “But it needs patched up.”

“It needs more than that,” Laura said. “It’s probably going to leave a scar, Jean!”

She got to her feet and put her coat on, while Jean turned to James and said, “Don’t do anything rash, James. I’m fine – a bit of pain never killed anyone.”

But it seemed James was beyond words. He was fiddling with a beermat against the table top, like he was contemplating murder. Laura put her hand gently onto Jean’s shoulder and looked at James and then to Robbie. “Keep an eye on Boy Wonder, Robbie. Don’t let him do anything stupid.”

Robbie sighed and drained his pint glass. As Jean turned and started to walk away from them, she heard Robbie say, “C’mon and get another pint, James. You don’t want to be goin’ up there. Not tonight.”


	20. Chapter 20

Jean Innocent sat in the waiting area of Accident and Emergency, watching the harsh reminder that it was a Friday night in a university city. There was much giggling, crying and vomiting from drunken students on the other side of the waiting room. It wasn’t the first time she had ended up here of an evening – there had been incidents scattered over the past couple of years where she had needed medical attention. The difference was that Thomas had always taken her here.

“What happened, Jean?” asked Laura, as she looked over the burn that grew more painful with every minute she came further out of shock.

“Dropped the pot,” shrugged Jean.

“You’re left-handed,” Laura pointed out. “You wouldn’t have been carrying any pot with your right hand, so you couldn’t possibly have dropped it on your left arm.”

Damn it. Laura had given this more thought than was at all convenient for Jean. She looked down at the grey vinyl floor so she didn’t have to see the look on Laura’s face when she gave the next excuse. “I sprained my left, didn’t I?”

“Then you would have used two hands, and you still wouldn’t have managed to drop it on your left arm for so long that it burned you like _that_.” There was a finality about her tone which Jean didn’t think ought to be argued with. “What did I say earlier, Jean? About telling us the truth, no matter how ugly it might be? I understand why you didn’t want to tell James. He might have gone and broken your husband’s face. But I have more sense than to do that, and I need you to tell me the truth about what happened – not the ‘cookery accident’ rubbish.”

Jean raised her head and looked Laura dead in the eyes. How was she supposed to explain exactly what had happened? How she had only been trying to wash strawberry yoghurt off her hands? It sounded ludicrous, and that was before she’d said any of it aloud. What reason was there for Laura to believe a story that sounded so implausible?

“Please, Jean,” Laura sighed. “It’s important.” She tilted her head slightly as she stared at Jean. “What are you afraid of? Apart from him, what is it you’re so scared of?”

“I worry,” Jean began, cringing at how small her voice sounded, “that I won’t be believed if I tell the truth. It’s not just about protecting the likes of James. It all sounds so improbable, so unlikely. It’s embarrassing, as well. I’m supposed to be strong and dependable, not beaten, battered and bruised. And even if I am to be believed, I’ll get the blame for it.”

“Do you really think I would believe him over you?”

“He’s…” Jean hesitated. Did she really want to go down the road of actually talking about any of this? Maybe it would help. Maybe she had the courage to speak up tonight.

“He’s what?”

“More commanding,” replied Jean. “He makes me feel small, like the world will never accept me or my version of events. On some level, I’m lucky he decides to look after me, because who else would take me on?”

“I would,” Laura said. She didn’t even seem to think about what she was saying. “Robbie would. James would. Jean, James _does_. Robbie is sitting in a pub right now, making sure James doesn’t do anything to your husband, because you can bet if he were left to his own devices, he would confront Thomas. And I’m sitting in a waiting room with you. Doesn’t that tell you that we are on your side here?”

Jean turned her rings around her wedding finger nervously. She hadn’t intended to have this conversation with Laura. All she had wanted was a lift to the hospital. “It’s difficult to explain,” Jean mumbled; her bottle was crashing. Everything she had momentarily believed she could say, she no longer had the words to describe.

Laura gently laid a hand on Jean’s right arm. “Can you at least tell me what happened tonight?”

“I went home with him,” Jean said. “Went and got changed. When I came downstairs he was cooking pasta, and he was in a mood with me. He just wasn’t speaking to me. So I went and got some yoghurt,” she explained. Her mouth was suddenly dry, like her body didn’t want her to say any of the things currently leaving her lips. “And I spilled it over myself trying to open it with my right hand. I went to the sink to wash my hands and Thomas, he…he pressed the bottom of the pasta pot into my arm.”

Jean looked away; she wasn’t keen on seeing the look on Laura’s face, for she didn’t even know if Laura was going to believe a single word she said. Who in their right mind would believe that? But when Laura’s fingers brushed Jean’s hair behind her ear, she had to put her eyes on the face of someone who surely could not trust that what she said was true. “I believe you, Jean,” Laura said quietly. There was no doubting her sincerity. “I know you’re telling the truth.”

She didn’t know what did it. Perhaps it was the relief of having some small shred of honesty out there, or that sense of comfort that came from knowing she had someone on her side after hearing the truth. But Jean found herself fighting back whatever emotion it was, because she could not be seen crying in a hospital waiting room.

“It’s okay,” Laura murmured. Had she seen the sheer magnitude of the emotion starting to build in Jean, or was she merely responding to the silence?

“Jean Innocent?!” called a nurse.

The sudden shout of her name made Jean startle, until Laura got to her feet and let the way towards the young nurse. “This is Jean,” Laura smiled, gesturing towards her as she made her way across the room.

“Evening,” said the nurse distractedly as she read the triage notes. When she looked up, however, she wore a warm smile. “I’m Nurse Stone,” she added. “We’ll go to cubicle three and take a look at this arm, shall we?” Once in the cubicle, Nurse Stone put the notes down and examined Jean’s arm. “Yes, we’ll have to get Dr. Beaton to look at this. Did you wrap it up after it happened?”

“I, uh…” Jean started to say, knowing Thomas would have told her to put cling film around it had she stayed long enough for him to give her any medical advice. “I didn’t get a chance to, no.”

“Can you tell me what caused this? I can see the skin is broken here,” Nurse Stone noted, hovering her finger over the area where the skin had blistered open.

“It was a pot,” Jean said carefully.

“The sides of it?”

“The bottom of it, straight off the heat.”

Nurse Stone looked up in surprise. “Did you do this yourself, Mrs. Innocent?”

“It was an accident.” Laura glared at Jean. “Okay, no, I didn’t do it myself. Someone else did it.”

The nurse allowed a small smile, and said, “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Would you like me to call your emergency contact? It’s down here as Thomas Innocent.”

“No,” Jean and Laura replied together. Nurse Stone, again, seemed surprised.

“In fact,” Jean said in a moment of ill-advised courage, “can I change my contact?”

“Of course,” smiled Nurse Stone. “I’ll just get you the form.”

When Nurse Stone left, Laura smiled. “Well done,” she said. Jean frowned. She hadn’t done anything that deserved praise at all. “You didn’t let her think it was an accident. And you’re cutting him out of one part of your life for your own wellbeing.”

Jean didn’t speak immediately. She was angry with Thomas; that was the only reason she was excising him from this aspect of proceedings. And then it hit her – “I’m angry at him because I can’t trust him.” Laura sat down on the bed next to her. “I don’t know why now, Laura. It doesn’t make sense – I know that. I just don’t trust him not to make matters worse if he’s ever called to the hospital.”

“Especially if he’s the one to put you here,” Laura pointed out. Jean nodded quietly. That was a problem she couldn’t avoid anymore. There was a freedom in not having Thomas breathe down her neck while she told the fairytale that explained away her fractured ribs or her concussion. This was the most visible and arguably most severe injury she’d had to come here with, and she was glad not to have the threat of Thomas’ immediate presence looming over her while she attempted to deal with it.

“I don’t know who to put as an emergency contact,” Jean admitted. “I was going to put my sister’s name down, but she takes Marjolein everywhere with her, and I don’t want my little niece being dragged through hospitals because my marriage is a mess. And she’ll tell Mum and Dad, and I don’t want that. And Robbie and James…well, you saw how they take it when Thomas hurts me. I don’t want to stress them out.” She was rambling, and she knew it.

“Put my name down,” Laura said simply. “I’m nearby, I don’t have a small child following me around, I’m not going to tell your parents, and I’m not going to get worked up when it’s unhelpful.”

Nurse Stone returned with a clipboard and a pen and tried to pass it to Jean. “I’m left-handed,” Jean said quietly.

She smiled understandingly and said, “I could fill it out for you if you’d like?”

“I can do it,” Laura offered. “I’m sure you’re busy enough without filling out forms too.”

Nurse Stone gave Laura the clipboard and said, “Dr. Beaton will be with you very soon. I’ve spoken to him and he says we should be able to clean it and dress it as an outpatient. But I wanted to have a word with you in private, Jean.”

Jean looked over at Laura, but she was concentrating on filling out the form. “About what?” she asked. It was all she could do to try and sound oblivious. Nurse Stone’s eyes darted towards Laura. “You can speak freely in front of Laura,” she said, since she had a horrible feeling that she knew exactly what was coming her way now that the nurse had access to her medical records.

“I’ve had a quick scan through your file, and this isn’t the first time you’ve been in here in the past couple of years,” Nurse Stone said gently, pulling up the plastic chair next to the bed. “Last April, you came in with a split to the back of your head and a concussion. You were examined, stitched up and given the all clear. July, you were seen for a suspected broken jaw, but it turned out just to be a tiny fracture. You were given painkillers and you were discharged. In December – Christmas Eve, in fact – you came in with fractured ribs. We made sure it was just a fracture and discharged you with painkillers.” Jean glanced at Laura and, just as expected, she had stopped writing to give the nurse her undivided attention. “February of this year, you sustained another head injury and were discharged with a prescription for amitriptyline.”

“Isn’t that given to rugby players when they get knocked about the head?” asked Laura; Jean didn’t fail to notice the slightly alarmed quality to her tone.

“Yes, it’s prescribed as a painkiller for post-traumatic headaches,” Nurse Stone confirmed, “particularly in sports players. But you don’t look like a rugby kind of girl to me, Jean.” Jean met Nurse Stone’s kind but stern gaze. For a woman in her twenties, she had a very self-assured air about her. But then, hadn’t Jean had that herself when she was in her twenties? “I’ve got to ask, is there violence in your home?”

Laura touched Jean’s right hand, maybe to make sure she was still on Planet Earth – Jean realised too late she was staring into nothing. When she looked around, she could see how much Laura wanted her to tell the truth. So, Jean nodded her head.

“Can you tell me who it is inflicting these injuries on you?” Nurse Stone asked gently. Her young face was full of kind concern.

“My husband,” Jean whispered.

The air shattered like glass around her. She had never thought she would ever reach the moment she told a nurse, an outsider, that her husband had a habit of battering her. “I see,” said Nurse Stone. She didn’t betray any panic or disgust; in fact, she remained remarkably calm. “Do you have any support?”

Jean allowed herself a breath. “My sister.”

Nurse Stone looked at Laura, who quickly said, “Oh, that’s not me.”

“I have good friends,” Jean added. Laura gave her a small smile and rubbed her shoulder, before returning to finish the form. From the pocket of her scrubs, Nurse Stone produced leaflets for domestic abuse helplines. “I can’t take them home,” Jean said quickly. “He’ll go mad if he sees that in the house.”

“I’ll take them for you,” Laura said, exchanging the clipboard for the leaflets with Nurse Stone. “We can look at them together later.”

“Do you have any means of communication your husband can’t interfere with?” asked Nurse Stone.

“Yeah, James insists I carry around this thing,” Jean said, taking the little mobile phone out of her fleece pocket. “He’s done something to it so I can call him, Robbie or Laura by holding down one of the number buttons.”

“Good,” smiled Nurse Stone. “And if you do decide to leave, Jean, there’s help out there. There are organisations and charities that can help you find somewhere to live, and you can get help with getting an injunction against him, if you want one.”

At that, Jean had to let out a soft and bitter laugh. “You realise you’re offering the Chief Superintendent of the Oxford CID advice about domestic abuse?” Something in her heart twisted, and she realised with a pang of sadness that she had not uttered the words ‘domestic abuse’ in relation to her situation. It was with even more sadness that she finally understood it. That really was what her marriage had become: a situation of domestic abuse.

“Your status and rank have no bearing on the help you deserve,” Nurse Stone said. “This can happen to _anyone_ , Chief Superintendent or not. It’s not you who’s the problem here. It’s him.”

At that moment, a man in his fifties stepped into the cubicle and said, “I’m Dr. Beaton. Nurse Stone says you’ve got a bit of a burn to your arm, Mrs. Innocent?” Jean held it up for him to see, and he handled her gently while he looked at the injury. “Well, we can get that cleaned and dressed for you. I’ll prescribe some painkillers and book you in to get the dressing changed tomorrow so we can check for infection, and again on Monday.”

The drive home was quiet. Jean was exhausted – she really just wanted to sleep. Laura had tried to argue the case for staying with her tonight, but Jean pointed out that if she wasn’t there when Thomas got up in the morning, he might assume she was at James’ again, and decide to cause uproar. It was better all round for her to go home to her own house, even if she didn’t dare sleep in her own bed.

But Laura didn’t seem to want to leave her alone. She followed Jean to the front door – Jean had to remind Laura to be as quiet as possible so as not to wake Thomas – and into the living room, where she silently closed the door and turned the light on. “Now, you _must_ go to that appointment tomorrow,” Laura said for the third time since Dr. Beaton had mentioned it. Jean resisted the temptation to roll her eyes as she sat down. “The last thing you want is that getting infected.”

“I know,” Jean said softly, listening for any movement upstairs. “And keep your voice down.”

Laura looked up, like she was going to be able to see Thomas through the ceiling, and sat down on the sofa next to Jean. “I’m not thrilled with the idea of leaving you here alone,” said Laura. “What if he hurts you again?”

“I’ll keep out of his way.”

“This is your _home_ , Jean. You shouldn’t be spending your time here keeping out of his way.”

Jean slumped backwards, exhaustion starting to kick in. “Well, I’m better off out of his way than in it, don’t you reckon?”

“That’s not what I’m getting at and you know it.”

“I know.”

They sat there for a while, neither saying anything. Jean was lost in herself. Acknowledging this was messy. The anger she felt about Thomas, and that she could not trust him, conflicted with the fact that, for better or worse, she did love him. And she did still believe that sometimes she provoked his temper. It was the proportions of it she was struggling to accept these days.

And what about James? What was she meant to do about him, when he got so obviously upset by Thomas’ actions? She understood it now, even if it had taken her far longer than it should have, but that didn’t leave her any better equipped to deal with it.

Ruth. Christ, if she told Ruth about this, the girl would be furious. Woman. Not girl. Jean always struggled to think of her little sister as an adult, even now. It was part of the reason she tried so hard to keep this all from her.

“Would you like me to take you to your appointment tomorrow?” Laura asked quietly. “I can’t imagine changing gear with your arm sprained and burned would be much fun.”

Jean looked over at Laura. “Thank you,” she said. “That would be one less thing for me to worry about.” Laura smiled and patted Jean’s leg gingerly. “And thank you for helping me tonight, Laura. I really do appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome.”

It wasn’t until Laura eventually left at about one o’clock that Jean let herself feel fractured. Sitting there on that hospital unit, she had realised more about her life than she had ever dreaded she might. Everything she had planned for herself when she was young was now in tatters. She hadn’t noticed it – him – chip away at her until she had taken control. Until she had clawed back some power from him. It was almost a shock to realise what she had said to Laura in that waiting room had been true. He did make her feel small, and powerless, and absurd. Sometimes she even wondered herself if things really did go the way she remembered them.

But they did. Things were exactly what she remembered them to be.

As the tiredness set in, Jean pulled the blanket down over herself and carefully lay down into a position that wasn’t going to aggravate her injuries. She hadn’t realised she was crying until the edge of her blanket was tear-soaked against her face. But for once, there was anger in those tears. There was anger and there was the knowledge that this was not just. It hurt like Hell itself, and yet, it was the validation that she was not crazy, and that she was not imagining the fear she felt when she looked at her own husband.

And above all, those were the tears that came from understanding that, no matter what she might have done to offend her husband, Jean Innocent should never have ended up in hospital at his hands.


	21. Chapter 21

“Get up! Come on! It’s after ten – get _up_!”

Jean stirred as a hand pushed her shoulder back. “I was at A and E all night,” she mumbled, pulling the blanket up to her chin. “I’m _tired_. Please, just let me sleep.”

The blanket was torn from her grasp, and the sudden cool air on her body forced her to open her eyes. She didn’t want to, for she was utterly exhausted, but she realised suddenly who would be the only person to tear comfort and warmth from her, and startled upright in a fraction of a second. Still bleary-eyed, she looked up to find Thomas seething in temper. “What did I tell you about taking that woman into my house?” he snapped. “I heard her come in the door with you last night.”

“ _Someone_ had to drive me home, Thomas,” Jean said wearily.

“Taxis, funnily enough, don’t exist in a realm separate to our own.”

Jean scoffed. “On a Friday night in a city dominated by pissed students? I think you’ll find they do.”

That was a horrible miscalculation. She shouldn’t have backchatted him. “What did they say in A and E?” he asked.

“I’ve got to go in later and get it checked,” she said vaguely.

“I’ll take you.”

“I’ll make my own way in,” she retorted coldly. The one thing she didn’t need was Thomas Innocent to be looming over her while a nurse made their own judgements about her injuries.

“Did they ask any questions?”

“I said I’m clumsy,” she lied. “They don’t know I’m left-handed and couldn’t do that to myself.”

She could feel him reading her mind. He could see her lies, and she knew that. But to tell the truth would sent him flaring like a Catherine wheel, and that would be potentially dangerous. He could not prove that she was lying, even if she was an outstandingly crap liar. But proof wasn’t important to Thomas it seemed; he pulled her up by the collar of her fleece, lifting her almost off her feet, until only her toes were grounded. “You’re on _very_ thin ice,” he whispered into her face. “What did you say to Laura Hobson?”

Jean met his eyes. She could almost hear her own heart as it thumped against her ribcage. “I said I’m clumsy,” she repeated.

“You’re a liar.”

“And you’re just plain cruel.”

It was out before she could stop it. “ _I_ am cruel?” he asked her, setting her down so the soles of her feet touched the floor again. “Am I the one playing mind games here?”

“Mind games?” said Jean. What was he talking about? Did he honestly think she had the time and energy to spare to play mind games? She spent it all just trying to keep her own head above water. “I’m not playing any game with you. This is _not_ a game for me.”

And she had to wonder – did he think of it as a game? A sport? “You’re trying to blame me for all this, aren’t you?” he snarled. “You want it to be my fault you got hurt, because then you don’t have to think about what a _vile_ woman you are.”

“You’re the one who burned a pot into your wife’s arm,” she replied. She didn’t take her eyes off him; there was no way of knowing whether her moments of courage came from anger or from the reinforcement she’d been given last night. “Good people don’t do that. Good people don’t deliberately bring others to harm, especially the ones they swore to love.”

“I do love you,” he said, quite obviously offended by the insinuation that he didn’t.

Jean stepped around him and said, “You’ve got a bloody weird way of showing it.” She went to walk away, but he grabbed her by the arm. She struggled against his grip. “Thomas, let go of me!”

“I haven’t finished speaking.”

“Well, _I_ have finished listening!” shouted Jean, still trying to wrestle herself out of his hands. But suddenly she was knocked to the floor, the back of his hand smacking her across the face. He stepped over her, walked away as he always did when he was angry with her. She was fairly sure he would have stepped over her dead body if ever he found it.

Jean struggled onto the sofa, the pain in her left arm and wrist making it difficult to scramble upwards. She could taste blood – her lip was probably bleeding, but he hadn’t gone upstairs and she couldn’t be sure he wasn’t in the kitchen. When she put her fingers to her mouth she wasn’t at all surprised to find blood on her fingertips. Why couldn’t he have a conversation? Why did all their rows end with a slap or a shove, or a hand around her throat, or worse? It had to be something about her that infuriated him into those reactions.

She let her mind obsess over first aid; she rather thought it was the only thing keeping her out of a state of panic as she thought of the spiral things were tumbling into. She had to go somewhere with a first aid kit. Work. She could get the first aid kit at work. But work was full of detectives, who had seen her injured before but would surely say something if they ever caught her fleeing into work on a Saturday.

Ruth wasn’t at home – she always took Marjolein and Hendrik for a walk and lunch on a Saturday. They were probably up some grassy path or walking along the river right now. Laura had done enough for Jean, and would be taking her to the hospital later; she couldn’t ask her to deal with this too, and Thomas would surely be furious if her name cropped up again. James would only come up here and confront Thomas, and that was out of the question. Robbie – did Robbie own a first aid kit?

But if nothing else, it was somewhere to go. Quietly, she padded to the door and picked up her handbag, keys and trainers; she would just have to drive barefoot, since she did not have time to stop and put them on her feet. She opened the door silently, but didn’t shut it completely behind her. If he heard the lock snap, he would know she was going, and she needed those precious few seconds to get into her car.

The starting of the engine drew Thomas to the door but, to Jean’s surprise and suspicion, he did nothing to try and stop her. Jean tried not to think about it – to try and dissect that decision would probably drive her mad.

Common courtesy forced Jean to find the small phone in her pocket, press and hold three and press the loudspeaker button. Robbie answered before the end of the first ring. “Ma’am?” he asked. “Are you alright?”

Jean ignored that question. “Robbie, is it okay if I stop at yours for an hour or so? Laura’s taking me to the hospital for one o’clock but-”

“Calm down, Jean,” Robbie said soothingly. “Of course you can come round. But just try and keep calm, alright?”

Jean hadn’t realised how hyper she was until Robbie told her to calm herself. “I’ll be at yours in about ten minutes.”

“I’ll stick the kettle on.”

“Thanks,” Jean said, realising now she could really do with a cup of tea – if she was going to have the ability to swallow it, that was. She hung up the phone and dropped it onto the passenger seat, all the while trying to breathe and drive at the same time. It was becoming increasingly difficult as the fear and adrenaline started to take over her body.

And the fear was wider than it ever had been before. It wasn’t just Thomas that terrified her these days; it was everything that came with him. It was the way her life contracted out of other circles into his, and the idea that some day she might end up completely dependent on a man so inclined to harm her.

She was going to throw up. Her stomach was being twisted like a wet towel being wrung, tighter and tighter until it could twist no more.

But she could not be sick. She had to drive. Changing gear with her injured arm was painful, and required a conscious effort; the cars seemed to pass at the speed of light, and without warning. As she turned onto Robbie’s street, she slammed her bare foot onto the brake pedal. She had not, in her internal panic, seen the car heading down the road onto which she had been turning. Mere seconds – and the slowing of the other driver – saved them both.

Jean held it together just long enough to park her car outside Robbie’s flat, pick up her phone, bag and trainers, and half-run up to his door. She was exposed and unsafe, and the universe could collapse on her at any given moment. She could feel her knuckles hit the door, but couldn’t understand how she made that noise.

Everything was changing. The way she saw her own life was changing, and that was so, _so_ frightening. What was she supposed to do if she brought it all down? Jean could vaguely make out Robbie Lewis’ face as the door opened and he gently pulled her inside, but she could not figure out what he needed from her, or what she needed from him. It was all disconnected, floating lawlessly around her. “Ma’am?” he asked her. She could find the confusion in his voice. “Jean, what’s happened?”

He was crossing their boundary. She wasn’t just his chief super now; he saw a human being, and that only scared Jean more. If he saw the humanity, he had to be able to see the cracks, too. “I nearly crashed the car,” she said, throwing his hands off her shoulders and striding into his home. She paced. She had to keep moving or it was all going to crush her. “I wasn’t paying attention and I almost crashed.”

“What happened to your face, lass?”

Jean couldn’t answer that. The words were stuck in her chest, swelling until her heart was going to explode.

“You’re not wearin’ any shoes!” he exclaimed, taking her trainers and bag from her hands.

“I’m going to be sick,” she said; her stomach was turning over itself.

Robbie took her right hand and led her to the bathroom, where she bent over the toilet, retching and choking until her throat and chest and shoulders were in knots. Robbie’s fingers scraped her hair back from her face, but in all the retching, nothing came up. She hadn’t eaten since that cake she’d had with him nearly twenty-four hours ago. “You’re okay,” Robbie said softly.

But she wasn’t. She couldn’t breathe. The words swelled her heart and her heart crushed her lungs. All she could do was go back to his living room and walk. If she walked, it wouldn’t catch her. But she couldn’t walk without oxygen, and oxygen would not come to her. “What’s happened?” Robbie pressed her; he wasn’t unkind, but there was an urgency in his tone that reminded Jean that she had a bloodied face, and she couldn’t deal with that fact right now.

She sank onto the sofa with her head in her hands, pulling at her hair like it would return some control over her world. Like the pain in her scalp could _make_ her breathe. “James, can you come over to mine? Jean Innocent’s here and she’s havin’ one of her attacks. Yeah, you know how to get her out of them. See you in a few minutes, yeah.”

Robbie sat down on the coffee table in front of Jean – she only saw his feet – and said, “Jean, can you look at me?”

She shook her head. If she looked at him, he would see everything weak and wrong about her.

“Can you tell me what happened to your face?” he asked her. His hand fell onto hers as he gently tried to unpick the knots her fingers made in her own hair. “Come on, don’t hurt yourself,” he urged her. But as soon as he loosened her grip, she tightened it again. When he couldn’t uncurl her fingers from her hair, he settled for rubbing a thumb over the back of her hand. “You’re safe here, Jean. Nobody can hurt you here.”

She didn’t know how long she sat there, trying to breathe. Time was a concept totally beyond her. All she wanted to do was cry. Anger, sadness, fear and panic had taken over every nerve and cell in her body, and her heart wanted to scream and wail until she was dead. But she couldn’t scream or wail when she couldn’t even breathe. She could, however, die, and she surely would if her chest ripped open like it felt so ready to do.

There was a knock at the door, and Robbie got to his feet to open it. “What happened?” asked the familiar voice of James Hathaway.

“She kept sayin’ she nearly crashed the car,” Robbie said, closing the door behind James. “That’s all she could say. She’s had a fair smack to the face, by the look of her.”

And suddenly James was crouched in front of her, his hand resting on her knee. “Jean,” he said. “Jean, you’re going to be okay.” His fingers were gentle but firm as he pulled her hands out of her hair, and placed her right onto his chest. “You need to breathe,” he reminded her. “But don’t try and breathe in. Breathe out. Let the air out.”

She tried to relax her chest, to let the air out, but it wouldn’t leave. Was there any air there at all? But when she forced it, it came up. As the air left her, it was replaced by emotion, by all that made her heart break. She had never thought anger would be the thing to do this to her. Sadness, fear and panic, perhaps, but anger? That was something, in this situation, that was completely unknown to her.

Her chest deflated, leaving her with a physical weariness she can only remember experiencing a handful of times. Robbie sat back down on the table with a first aid box. “We need to get you cleaned up, Jean,” he said. “Can’t have you walkin’ about with blood all over your face, can we?”

So she let Robbie clean her face and press a couple of butterfly strips over the cut on her lip. Jean managed not to let herself crack while he patched her up – she could remember now that was the reason she had come to Robbie in the first place. “What happened?” asked James. Jean met his eyes, worried he might not take it very well. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to do anything about it unless you ask me to.”

“We had a row,” she admitted. “He was annoyed because he heard Laura take me home last night. I guess I probably shouldn’t have argued back. Eventually – I don’t know if it was because I hurt his feelings or if he just wanted me to shut up – he slapped me. I got in the car and drove, but I wasn’t looking at what I was doing. Pulled out of the junction and nearly hit a car.”

“That man should be in a bloody prison cell,” muttered Robbie as he tidied away the first aid mess. Jean chose not to reply, because what could she really say? He went to the kitchen, and she could hear him making tea.

James got up onto the couch beside Jean, his hand careful and gentle on the back of hers. “How do you feel?” he asked her. Jean looked up at him in surprise. It was such a simple question, but there was no simple answer.

“Don’t, James,” she finally replied. “Not right now. Please.” If she spoke about that, she thought she might die with the weight of it.

When Robbie returned with cups of tea, he sat down on a chair and watched them. Jean could feel his gaze on her, probably trying to figure out what he could do to help her, if she knew Robbie Lewis at all. But Jean was exhausted, and the warmth and sweetness of the tea only lulled her closer to succumbing to it.

Not only was she tired from her excursion to Accident and Emergency last night, but the effort of her body’s reaction to her life had sucked all the energy out of her. Though she tried to stay upright, she found herself leaning against James’ arm, drifting back and forth between alertness and sleep. Someone, probably Robbie, took the cup out of her hands. “I’ll phone Laura, tell her to pick Jean up here for her appointment,” she heard Robbie say. Jean was too tired to even open her eyes, never mind say she would contact Laura.

“Will I wake her up?” asked James.

“No, let her sleep,” said Robbie. “Let her have an hour’s kip before Laura takes her to the hospital. God knows the poor woman must need it. Can’t imagine she feels very safe sleepin’ at home, can you?”

An arm wrapped itself around her shoulders and pulled her into James’ warm chest. Even in the safety of a friend’s arms, the reminder of this morning invaded, a hand flying towards her, a blanket being ripped away from her, her feet being pulled from the floor. But outside of herself she felt a blanket being placed over her body, and a face pressed into her hair, and the hand that gently rubbed her arm was caring, not violent. It was, she knew now, possible to feel safe, and to never want to let that feeling go.

As she fell into sleep, though, she remembered she would have to relinquish this shelter, to return to the lion’s den. That very thought, even as she slept, made Jean Innocent shrink herself in fear.


	22. Chapter 22

A hand shook Jean Innocent. She woke in fright, instinctively knocking the hand away from her. Once she actually looked around her, she remembered she was in Robbie’s living room, asleep on the sofa on top of James; she was rather surprised James hadn’t moved her out of his way. But it was Laura Hobson’s face staring down at her. “It’s only me,” she smiled. “I had a thought – it might be an idea to photograph your injuries, in case he’s ever arrested or you ever decide to press charges.” In her hand was a digital camera; Jean could see the trained pathologist in Laura coming out now.

Jean nodded her consent, and Laura beckoned to follow her into the corner, to stand in front of a wall away from James and Robbie. “This is embarrassing,” muttered Jean. “I’m supposed to be better than this.”

“ _He_ should be better than to _do_ this,” Laura retorted. “You heard the nurse last night – you are not the problem here.”

Jean’s phone rang – her main phone – and she took it out of her pocket. She had expected to see Thomas’ number, or the house phone’s, but it wasn’t. It was Chris, her son. And she couldn’t answer it, because he would surely hear the fatigue and distress in her voice. She almost got one of the other three to answer it, and remembered that would be a sure way to freak Chris out. So Jean rejected the call and sent him a message: _Everything okay? X_

Laura finished her photography, and said, “When they have the dressing off in the hospital, I can take a photo of your arm as well, if that’s okay with you.”

Her phone beeped with Chris’ reply: _About to head over to yours. See you in a while x_

“Oh, Christ,” moaned Jean, sitting down on the arm of the sofa. _D_ _on’t waste your Saturday over here. I can see you another day. Love you x_

Robbie approached with Jean’s trainers in his hand, while Laura reminded her, “We’re going to have to leave now to get to your appointment in time.” Jean nodded and put her shoes on; her phone rang again, and she rejected Chris’ call again. She couldn’t effectively lie to him right now, but she knew her son, and therefore knew there was more than half a chance that he would ignore her attempts to keep him away via text message.

The car journey to the hospital was a quiet one, the silence interrupted only by the beeping of her phone with concerned text messages from Chris. She was going to have to phone him and put him off once and for all, but she didn’t quite know what to say to him. When it rang at the entrance to Accident and Emergency at five minutes to one, and the walked into the building to the reception to state why they were here that Jean sent a message: _Everything is fine. Don’t worry. I love you x_

The receptionist asked them to wait a couple of minutes in the waiting room until the doctor was ready to see them, so they turned around. Sitting there, right in front of them, was Thomas. “What are you doing here?” Laura demanded. Jean cringed at the hostility in her voice, for Thomas would surely react badly.

Thomas stood up and faced Laura. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“Thomas,” Jean warned him. “Don’t make a scene.”

“I’m taking a friend to a hospital appointment,” Laura said firmly.

“Go home, Thomas,” Jean implored him. “Please. We can talk later on.”

But Thomas ignored her and stepped forward, looking Laura dead in the eyes. Laura didn’t look away, or even flinch. “I can take it from here,” he said. It was nothing short of an order, and delivered in a tone so heavily laced with venom that Jean would have obeyed just to avoid the consequences of defiance. But Laura was not Jean, and would not back down.

“Not if Jean doesn’t want you to,” Laura asserted.

Thomas grabbed Jean by the arm – her left – and tried to pull her to his side. Jean cried out in agony; she couldn’t stop it from leaving her mouth. The pressure on her burned arm caused a kind of pain she had never felt before. As Jean fought herself out of his grip, a nurse called out, “Mrs. Jean Innocent?!” Jean couldn’t answer, breathless as she was with trying to contain her reaction to the pain in her arm. “Is there a problem here?” she asked, crossing the room to them.

“I want to stay with my wife,” snapped Thomas.

“Your wife doesn’t want you with her,” retorted Laura, “because _you_ are the reason she is here in the first place.”

“Laura, no!” Jean hissed. She had lied to Thomas about what she had told Laura, and now he had the evidence he needed to punish her for it.

“Mrs. Innocent, would you like your husband to come with you?” asked the nurse.

Jean looked around at the nurse, surprised to be asked what she wanted. And with Laura and a department full of NHS staff surrounding her it was safe, for now, to say what was truthful. She met Thomas’ gaze and said, “No. No, I’d rather Laura came with me.”

“Then it will be Laura who goes with you,” the nurse replied. She was older than Nurse Stone of the previous night, about the same age as Jean, and had an even greater air of confidence and self-assurance around her. “Mr. Innocent, I suggest you wait here for your wife, or leave the department.”

Thomas wasn’t having it. “You have no right to tell me I can’t be with my wife in hospital. I’m the one you’re meant to contact if ever she ends up here! And it’s Dr. Innocent,” he added with a derisive snarl. Jean wondered if he treated nurses the same way when he was working.

Jean closed her eyes as the nurse looked down into Jean’s file. “Actually, _Doctor_  Innocent, you’re not Mrs. Innocent’s emergency contact. There would be no reason for us to contact you at all unless your wife specifically asked us to.”

She opened her eyes and found a livid Thomas in front of her. “Then who _is_ the contact?” he snapped at the nurse. “Let me guess. Sergeant James Hathaway,” he sneered. Jean frowned. Why on Earth would Thomas assume that?

“That’s confidential information, Dr. Innocent,” the nurse said coldly. “Now, please let me get on with treating your wife.”

Jean felt Laura’s hand gently pull her by the shoulder, prompting her to step back from Thomas. A male doctor approached them and said with a smile that only thinly veiled his impatience, “What’s the issue here, Nurse Murphy?”

“I’m being told I can’t stay with my wife.”

It was Laura’s tolerance for the situation that broke first. “ _Stay_? You haven’t been with her at all! You have practically ambushed her!”

“I wouldn’t have to if she didn’t have your poison dripping in her ear,” snarled Thomas. Jean could feel her heart rate rising with the tension in the room.

The doctor did the same thing Nurse Murphy did: asked Jean her opinion. “Do you want your husband in the treatment room with you, Mrs. Innocent?”

“No,” she repeated. “Laura brought me here and I would like to stay with her.”

The doctor turned on Thomas. “You heard her. Now, if you’re going to wait here, I must caution you not to disrupt your wife’s treatment or my department any further, or I will have you removed from the building. Do you understand me?”

Nurse Murphy took Jean and Laura away to a side room, where Jean sat on the bed and tried to calm herself. She could vaguely hear Laura asking if she could take a photo of Jean’s arm while the dressing was off. “Is that alright with you, Jean?” asked Nurse Murphy. Jean could only nod her head.

Her phone rang again. Chris. Again. “You’re going to have to answer it,” Laura said kindly.

Jean sighed and put the phone to her ear. “Hey, Chris,” she said, trying to sound as relaxed and as casual as she could. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m at the house, but nobody’s here,” he said. “Where are you?”

Nurse Murphy said quietly, “I’m just going to take this dressing off. It might hurt a little.”

“Mum?” Chris asked. “Mum, are you at the doctor? On a Saturday?”

“I’m just getting a dressing changed at the hospital,” Jean replied calmly. She didn’t want Chris to worry about this, and yet she knew that ship had sailed. “It’s nothing serious.” But as she said it, she winced, and was face with the sight of her own burned skin. “Nothing to bother yourself with.”

“Surely Dad could do that for you?” Jean didn’t answer. What exactly could she say? “Mum?”

Nurse Murphy examined the wound and said, “I’m just going to get Dr. Oakes to have a look at this, alright?” Jean nodded, and Laura took the opportunity to take a phot of Jean’s arm.

“Which ward are you on?” demanded Chris. She could hear his car engine, and knew he had put her on loudspeaker so he could drive.

“A and E,” said Jean. “But Chris, don’t fly over here all worried. I’m fine. It’s just a little burn.”

Chris hung up the phone, and Jean groaned.

“Everything okay?” asked Laura.

“My son is on his way over here.”

“Ah,” Laura said. She seemed to see the problem with that as well. “Does he know anything about what’s happening?”

“No.”

Nurse Murphy returned with Dr. Oakes, the same doctor who had told Thomas to either behave or leave. He examined the burn carefully and said, “Yeah, you’re right, Kim,” Dr. Oakes said quietly. “There’s what seems to be the very early stages of an infection here, Mrs. Innocent. It’s alright, it happens sometimes – that’s why we always check the day after the burn is sustained. Nurse Murphy will give it a good clean out and I’ll prescribe you some antibiotics.”

Jean forced a smile. “Thank you.”

Dr. Oakes left them to it, and Nurse Murphy set about cleaning the wound. They sat in silence. Nurse Murphy wasn’t as forward as Nurse Stone had been about Thomas, and Jean was somewhat relieved not to have to talk about it right now. The fact he was in the building made her nervous enough as it was, but she didn’t want to be _that_ person who asked them to force him to leave.

She had been in this room less than ten minutes before the receptionist knocked on the door and poked his head in. “There’s a Chris Innocent at reception, asking to see you. Is it okay to take him through?”

Jean nodded, but Laura added, “Just make sure Thomas Innocent doesn’t get anywhere near here.” The receptionist smiled and closed the door, while Laura looked down at Jean from where she stood. “What are you going to tell him?”

“That if I catch him breaking speed limits again I’ll have his head on a plate,” Jean muttered viciously. There was no way Chris had got from her house to the hospital in under ten minutes without speeding. Laura chuckled. The door opened and Chris Innocent walked into the room. And true to her word, the first thing Jean said to her son was, “Never let me catch you driving dangerously ever again! You’re a police officer, not a rally driver!”

Chris ignored her, leaning down to kiss her cheek with his eyes fixated on the burn to Jean’s forearm. “What the hell happened to you, Mum?” he asked her as Nurse Murphy started to wrap her arm up again. “And what’s with the cut lip?”

“Did you see your father?” Jean asked. She didn’t want to give Chris all the gory details.

“Yeah, he’s sitting in the waiting room. Asked him what was going on, but all he said was, ‘Nothing to do with me, son,’” he imitated his father’s gruff and sulky tone, pulling a face that Jean couldn’t help but chuckle at, regardless of the circumstances.

Nurse Murphy finished fixing the dressing and gathered all the debris into the appropriate bins. “I’ll just go and get your antibiotics,” she said, leaving the room.

Chris sat down on the bed and put both his arms around Jean. She leaned into his chest, remembering a time when it had been her job to envelop him in her embrace, to look after him. It was still difficult to remind herself he was a grown man now, and had his own sense of responsibility to his mother. “I come over to see you for your birthday and you’re in hospital! What happened, Mum?”

Jean put her arm around Chris’ back and looked up at Laura for help. “You can’t keep lying, Jean,” she said. “Chris is bound to find out, and it’s better you tell him than Thomas doing it.”

“Tell me what?” Chris asked sharply. “Mum?”

She pulled back in Chris’ arms to look at his face. “Now, don’t go mad,” she warned him. “Please, Chris, take this better than you would have done when you were sixteen.”

“I’m not a kid anymore,” he reminded her.

Jean sighed. “We had a couple of rows this weekend, me and your dad. I wound him up and he overreacted, that’s all.”

“ _Dad_ did that?” asked Chris. Jean could hear the anger in his voice, and rubbed his arm in an effort to soothe him. “But _how_? I mean, I know the cut must’ve been a slap, but how did he manage to do that to your arm?”

When Jean didn’t speak, Laura did it for her. “Your father pressed the bottom of a pot into your Mum’s arm last night.”

Chris got to his feet and stormed out of the room. Jean knew that look, and it wasn’t good; she ran after him. “Chris!” she called out. “Chris, come back here!”

But by the time Jean and Laura caught up with him, Chris was crossing the waiting room to his father. “Chris?” asked Thomas, standing up. “Is your mother alright?” Chris drew back his fist and punched Thomas squarely in the face. Thomas staggered backwards a step, and Chris advanced on him.

Jean and Laura took an arm each and pulled Chris back. “No!” Jean shouted. “No, my boy, don’t do that!” The receptionist went to Thomas with tissues, while Jean hauled her son away from his father. “You are better than this, Chris!” He was still glowering over Jean’s shoulder at Thomas, so she took his face into her hands and forced him to focus on her face. “What did I _always_ tell you when you were just a boy?”

“No situation ever requires the addition of violence,” he recited, “for violence breeds anger and anger breeds violence, and always the gentle and the innocent shall inevitably suffer at the hands of the angry and the violent.”

She nodded, and could feel the tense muscles of her son’s face start to relax. He took a step away from Thomas and put his hand on Jean’s where it sat on his cheek. “Good boy,” she said. Jean put her arms around Chris’ neck and pulled him down into a cuddle. She could see Laura watching them from mere feet away, and mouthed to her over Chris’ shoulder, “I’m so sorry.”

Laura shook her head and gave her a small smile. Nurse Murphy appeared beside Laura and said, her expression one of bewilderment, “I’ve got your antibiotics here, Mrs. Innocent.”


	23. Chapter 23

Jean Innocent soon found herself back in Robbie’s flat, where she had not intended to end up for a second time today. But Chris had insisted they go somewhere that wasn’t to be shared with Thomas, and Robbie’s was closest. She sat down on the sofa and, when James asked what happened, Jean replied, “Chris decided to punch his father in the face.”

“Good,” snarked James. Jean saw Chris look over at the sergeant. “I know violence isn’t the answer but do you know what? Good for you, Chris. It’s about time he got a taste of his own medicine,” he said savagely.

The penny seemed to drop for Chris. “Exactly how long has this been going on, Mum? Hathaway’s talking like it’s happened before.”

“A while,” Jean admitted vaguely. “He was always…he always knew how to get under my skin. And when I look back, I can see that gradually getting worse. But it didn’t get _really_ bad until a few years ago.”

“After I left home.”

Jean nodded. “He doesn’t have to watch his step anymore,” she said. “He can say and do whatever he likes because it’s just us. And I didn’t think it was wrong. Christ, I’ve spent my entire career telling other people it’s wrong, but somehow he managed to convince me it’s alright if he does it to me. This lot have been trying to tell me for months, but I couldn’t understand that they were right and he was wrong.”

“You should have _told_ me, Mum, before he started hitting you,” Chris said earnestly.

“Would you have believed me?” she shot back at him. “Or would you have said, ‘Oh, I’m sure he doesn’t mean the nasty things he says. You know Dad; he’s got a strange sense of humour.’”

Chris looked down, and Jean knew the answer. “I still wish you’d told me,” Chris said. “How did you find out?” he asked James directly.

“Your mother got very drunk one night,” James replied, “and when I asked her what the hell she thought she was doing, she said, ‘I’m going to get blue bleezin’ blind drunk.’ I looked into it and gathered it was the only way she had of telling me she was being abused.”

“That old song great-auntie Margaret used to sing?” Chris asked incredulously. “God, Mum. Even I wouldn’t have made that connection.”

“I almost didn’t make the connection,” James said. “It was Robbie who told me it’s a song.”

Jean couldn’t say what possessed her that night. She did have a hazy memory of saying that to James – her soul’s internal screams for help, help she could not have begun to ask for, had translated into those words as they had left her mouth. The memory of the abject despair she had felt as she had argued with James on the street turned her stomach. He must have thought she was behaving like a drunken idiot, and she had been, but he could not have seen the woman screaming for help underneath it. How could he?

Robbie and Laura came to them with mugs of hot tea, and sat in chairs as Chris said, “Don’t go home.”

“I’ve got to,” she said.

“Why?” James asked. Jean turned to him in surprise. “It’s a simple enough question, ma’am. Why must you go home?”

James might have found it a simple question, but to Jean, there was no simple answer. It wasn’t that she wanted to see Thomas, or try and sort things out with him – she could see the ruins of their marriage could never be truly rebuilt – but she needed home. Home was an anchor, and even the danger she faced there was familiar and, in its own bizarre way, predictable. But if she were to say that to any of the people with whom she currently shared Robbie Lewis’ living room, they would surely think her insane.

“Come home with me,” said Chris.

“You live too far from the station. I can’t drive that far just now,” she replied, holding up her bandaged arm.

“Then stay with me,” James said. Again, Jean had to look at him with surprise on her face. Was she forgiven for walking out on him the last time he put a roof over her head? “Just anywhere but in a house with _him_.”

Laura shifted in her chair. “Jean, you’ve seen how abusers operate. Now that you’ve taken some of your own autonomy back, he’ll be desperate for control. Especially since you’ve told Chris the truth. I don’t imagine that would make you Thomas’ favourite person.”

Chris looked down into his mug and said, “Yeah, I shouldn’t have hit him. I didn’t think about the repercussions for you.”

“And desperate abusers are the most dangerous there are,” continued Laura. “I said it last night and I’ll say it again – I do not want to see you on my autopsy table.”

The air seemed to settle like dust on her lungs, the weight of her choices crushing her chest. “I have to do it properly,” she whispered, “and on my own. I need to tell him that this is the end. I’ll pack a bag, and I’ll leave.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to be alone with him,” Robbie said.

“There are some things a woman must do alone, Robbie,” Jean replied gently. “Ending her marriage is one of them.”

“Then keep that little phone we gave you where you can get to it,” he said. It was unusual for Robbie to be so tense, to border on daring to give her an order. “Laura’s right.”

Jean groaned as she stood up. “I’ll go now, before I get the chance to actually think about it. I don’t want to change my mind.” Chris got to his feet, but Jean turned and faced him. “Chris, go home. I’ll stay with James. You get yourself home and calm down before you work yourself up, darling.”

There was a mutinous look on his face, but Chris had long since learned to listen to his mother – it had kept him out of trouble his whole life, bar a period of a few years where she had lost all ability to guide him, and he had lost the ability to be guided. “Alright. Fine. But Mum, you call me as soon as you get to James’, okay?”

“I can do you one better than that, lad,” Robbie said. “James can stay here just now. He won’t leave here without Jean, and she can call you from here as soon as it’s over, not after faffin’ about gettin’ over to Hathaway’s place.”

Chris nodded his head, and kissed Jean’s forehead. He took her into his arms and Jean could feel the intensity of his embrace bruise into her tired muscles. “I love you, Mum,” he told her. There was a thickness to his voice that told Jean he would be in tears as soon as he was out of her sight. It broke her heart. Seeing her child in pain always would break her heart, even when he was a strapping police officer who could easily dwarf her in his arms. Even worse was that she was the root cause of that pain.

“I love you, Chris. God, you’ll never know how much I love you,” she sighed. She put him at arm’s length and gently tapped his cheek. “Now, home. And look after yourself.”

He bade goodbye to James, Robbie and Laura, and left them. Jean sat back down. What was she supposed to say when she was faced with Thomas? She couldn’t sneak her belongings out of the house; the cloak and dagger routine only made facing reality so much harder to stomach.

“I can go with you if you’d like me to, ma’am,” James offered.

“No,” she said. “Thank you, James, but no. I meant what I said – if I’m going to take a bulldozer to my marriage, I have to do it on my own.”

Jean was more careful with her driving this time. The fright she had given herself by almost causing an accident instilled a great caution and need to double-check what she saw. And that careful driving kept her from becoming a nervous wreck. The knowledge that she could not panic while behind the wheel, if not for her own safety then for that of others, allowed her to stay calm enough to make a plan. To map out that house and the location of what she would need to gather.

Clothes: bedroom. Painkillers: bathroom. Phone charger: living room. Laptop: living room.

Everything else, she could deal with once she was out.

She pulled into the drive. Thomas’ car was parked there, which meant he had got home. Jean got out the car and unlocked the front door. She tried to be quiet – to remain undiscovered might buy her some time. It made more sense to pack first and talk afterwards. But that wasn’t to happen, for leaning on the doorframe of the kitchen at the end of the hall was Thomas Innocent. “Where’s Chris?” Thomas asked. His tone was sour, and his nose a little bruised.

Jean didn’t close the distance between them. “He went home.”

“What did you tell him that made him angry enough to punch his own dad?”

“I told him you slapped me,” Jean said cautiously. “And that you burned me.”

“And _that_ set him off?” Thomas demanded. “Jesus, the boy’s got a thinner skin than I thought.”

“He’s not thin-skinned. He just doesn’t like the idea of his mother getting hurt. And you’re lucky I always taught him that violence makes matters worse, or he might have done much more than punch you once.”

Thomas scoffed at her. “No situation ever requires the addition of violence, for violence breeds anger and anger breeds violence, and always the gentle and the innocent shall inevitably suffer at the hands of the angry and the violent,” he sneered at her. It didn’t surprise her that he could recite it word for word; he must have heard her say it to Chris dozens of times, even if he chose never to heed it himself. “And you wonder why he’s turned out to be _weak_ like you?”

“I’d rather he took after me than you,” Jean retorted. “Better a pacifist than a bully.”

He stood upright, taking his weight off the doorframe. “What’s for dinner, anyway?” he asked, in an unnerving return to the mundane and the everyday. Jean realised now that she had never paid attention to that swerve, that she had always let him take her away from the fear he caused her. How could she have been so blind to that tactic?

“Thomas,” she said softly. “Thomas, I’m leaving. I can’t live like this anymore. I almost crashed the car today, because you slapped me and it frightened me. Our son knows what this relationship is now, and he will never accept it. I could never ask him to, because if I saw my parents like this, I would have spoken up. We’re bad for each other. I make you angry, and you hurt me.”

“You’re not leaving.”

Jean took off the engagement and wedding rings from her finger, lifted Thomas’ arm and gently pressed them into his hand. “I love you. I do. And maybe that’s why I have to do this.” She turned away and wiped away her tears with determination. She had to do this, get through this part, and then she could cry. She could cry where she was safe, where her grief could not be manipulated.

In her bedroom, she saw where she had slept with this man for so many years. Where she had once laughed with him, cried with him, made love with him…back when he had been something she could understand and justify. Back when he had not been so overtly terrifying. From under the bed she took a suitcase, and lifted some shoes into it. Methodically, she chose work clothes, casual clothes, pyjamas and underwear from her wardrobe.

A hand grabbed hers and pulled the shirt she had been packing from her grasp. “This isn’t your decision,” Thomas said. “You’re only doing this because those _friends_ of yours are telling you to.”

“I’m doing this because I’m tired,” she said wearily. “And I’m frightened. And I’m tired of being frightened. Last night, when you dragged me out of the pub on my birthday, that was the first time I really felt angry at you. And I haven’t stopped feeling angry since. But rather than stoop to your level, I’m removing myself from the situation that makes me so angry, and so frightened, and so bloody _tired_.”

She stepped around him to go to the bathroom to get her migraine painkillers from the medicine cabinet. Thomas caught her by the left arm, squeezing the site of the burn he had inflicted. “You are _not_ doing this,” he hissed. “You don’t get to decide when we give up on our marriage, Jean. Don’t you remember vowing to love, honour and obey me?”

“Yes,” she said. It was the first time she had heard any bravery in her own voice – was this was James Hathaway so often claimed he could see in her? “But I also remember you vowing to love, honour and cherish me and, as madcap as any plan of God’s might be, I can’t really envision that plan to be me living my life in fear of you.”

Bravery, she remembered moments later, was foolish. Bravery was the reason she now had a hand around her throat and her back pinned against a wall. Bravery was the reason she could not find any air, and why the corners of her vision slowly faded into black. Bravery was the reason her foot was mere inches from the edge of the top stair.

“You are _nothing_ ,” he said to her, his voice a monster’s snarl that spat in her face. “There _is_ no plan for you, Jean, because nobody ever cared enough to make one.”

There was a madness in his eyes. A desperation.

“Get off,” she choked. “Let me go!”

His hand pressed harder against her throat, and Jean tried to figure out how she wasn’t dead yet.

She fumbled her fingers into her fleece pocket and groped for the tiny mobile phone. Her eyes closed, she felt around the keypad for the button for the number two, pressing it down hard for what she hoped was long enough to activate the speed dial.

The phone still in her pocket, she freed her hand and tried to pull Thomas’ fingers from around her throat, but there was a physical strength she had never known him to possess before. “Thomas,” she gasped out. “Stop!”

“You’re my wife,” he told her. “You’re my wife. Not Chief Superintendent Innocent, or Mum, or even Jean. Just my wife. You don’t deserve to be anything more than mine.”

Jean struggled against him, trying to push herself forwards. “I’m…me,” she whispered hoarsely. Hot tears rolled down her cheeks. Whether they were tears of fear or merely her body’s reaction to having its air supply cut off, she could no longer tell.

She did the only thing her darkening mind could think to do. She kicked out, and could feel her foot catch him hard on the thigh. He faltered back, his hand releasing her throat so suddenly that she could not help but gasp desperately for air, without thought or dignity. “You bitch!” shouted Thomas, leaning over with his hand on his thigh. Jean almost felt guilty; she had not realised she had kicked him so hard.

Her back no longer against the wall, as Thomas started to draw near once more, Jean opened her mouth to speak.

But knuckles hit across her face, and Jean stumbled back. A flash of carpet, wood and wall was the only thing she registered.


	24. Chapter 24

“I’m…me.”

James Hathaway’s phone was on loudspeaker as he got into the car, Laura and Robbie already at his heels. “I’ll put a call in to the station, see if we can get uniform down to Innocent’s house,” Robbie was saying as he pulled the seatbelt across his chest.

Over the phone, there was a loud groan – it sounded like Jean – and the thudding of footsteps, uneven like someone was staggering. James started to drive once Laura was in the back of the car; he had a horrible feeling about this. He should _never_ have let her set foot in that house without backup. He would never have let her do it in a professional setting – he would have fought her until they turned to stone if he’d been forced to. How could he have let it happen in a personal and arguably more perilous situation?

“You bitch!”

That was Thomas Innocent. James looked in the rear-view mirror. Though Robbie was preoccupied by trying to get uniform in action, Laura had heard the same unchecked fury James had, and the fright was written in every pore of her face.

It was the most sickening crack of knuckles against flesh. A series of deafening thumps followed, like someone taking repeated body blows, or falling from a height. “Oh, my God,” James whispered. He increased his speed, coming as close to the speed limit as he could without breaking the law.

The silence rung through the car, broken as it was by Robbie telling uniform the chief superintendent was in serious danger and they were to attend the address immediately. Laura unclipped her seatbelt and leaned over to take the phone from the centre console. She put it to her ear, to hear the same static silence he did. To his surprise, she hung up. James glared at her in the mirror. “Whatever that man has done, Jean is unresponsive, and listening to it can only distress you, James.”

Robbie took his phone from his ear. “Uniform’s on their way.”

James didn’t answer. He was afraid that if he did, they would see the terrible fear and anger swirling in the pit of his stomach. If ever they saw that, they would know how he cared for Jean Innocent. It wasn’t even a romantic connection, really. That was why he didn’t believe they could ever understand.

He parked at the bottom of the drive and ran to the front door. It was locked, so he hammered his fist against the wood, shouting, “It’s Sergeant Hathaway! Open up!”

There was no reply. At his feet, Robbie was groping underneath the doormat. “She’s many things, is our Innocent, but imaginative ain’t one of them,” Robbie said as he stood up with a solitary key between his thumb and forefinger. James snatched the key out of his hand and unlocked the door.

The scene that greeted him on the other side was horror-inducing.

Jean Innocent lay lifeless on the floor, her body motionless at the foot of the stairs. Her face was coming up in a bruise, where she must have been punched, and her nose was bleeding. A violent bruise was emerging around her throat. James’ first thought was the worst he’d had in a very long time – that Jean was dead.

James knelt down and pressed his fingers to Jean’s wrist; the relief was almost painful as he felt her pulse against his skin. He gently placed her arm over her stomach and allowed himself to stroke her hair. When he took his fingers away, they were sticky with drying blood – she must have hit the back of her head.

“Don’t move her,” Laura’s voice said from behind him. “We don’t know if she’s sustained any spinal injuries.”

James nodded and let Laura in to see Jean. Robbie walked around them, and went into the living room. “Thomas?!” he called out. “Thomas, we need you tell us what happened, so we can tell the paramedics.”

“She fell. She was drunk, and she fell,” Thomas Innocent’s voice came from the top of the stairs. It was a lie, of course – Jean Innocent had been utterly sober when she had left Robbie’s home, and there was no way she could have got drunk in the mere minutes she spent here. James stood up as Laura called for an ambulance, and a flash of blue light came in through the frosted glass of the door.

“She was sober,” James said, fighting to stay calm enough not to kick Thomas senseless. “We _know_ she was sober, so don’t even attempt to try that one.”

James took the stairs two at a time, and reached the top before Thomas could make any decision. “Thomas Innocent, I am arresting you under suspicion of assault occasioning actual bodily harm. You do not need to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

With a uniformed officer at the now wide open front door, James took Thomas by the arm and forced him down the stairs. While James was careful not to stand on Jean, Thomas kicked her shin in temper. James lost his self-restraint. He threw Thomas forwards against the wall, his arms twisted firmly behind his back. “Don’t you _dare_ ,” growled James. “If I _ever_ see or hear of you laying a finger on her ever again-”

“James.” It was Robbie, who was placing himself between James and Thomas with a set of handcuffs, who spoke. “Don’t. He’s doin’ it on purpose, man! He wants you to make a threat!”

James stepped back. Of course. Of course that was Thomas Innocent’s way of working. He would love nothing more than to say Sergeant Hathaway threatened him, or suggest that his wife had been cheating on him. That man never did anything without a reason. “Get him down to the station,” Robbie told one of the PCs. “I’ll question him once the superintendent’s on her way to the hospital.”

“I want to question him,” James said instantly.

“No,” said Robbie and Laura in unison.

James looked at them in surprise. Robbie opened his mouth – no doubt to tell him that it would be foolhardy to question the man when he so clearly hated his guts – but Laura managed to speak first. “You go with Jean in the ambulance,” she suggested. “It was you she called – she’ll want you there with her when she wakes up.”

“If,” spat James.

“ _When_ ,” Robbie said. “Go with her. She’d rather have you there with her than in an interview room with _him_. It seems to me her priority is always not to upset you. And anyway, I don’t fancy the dressin’ down I’d get if she ever found out I let you put yourself in a room with him,” he added with a smile that James couldn’t help but share in. He knew exactly what Robbie meant; a dressing down from Jean Innocent was a prospect every officer, with one or two exceptions, in the CID dreaded.

“Robbie’s right,” said Laura. James looked down at her, where she rested on her knees with Jean’s hand in hers. “Jean trusts you. I’ll follow you later on, once I’ve made sure SOCO have gathered all the forensics they can.”

A pair of paramedics entered the fray, and Laura started to brief them. “Jean Innocent. Mid-forties. We’re a bit sketchy on the details but I think she’s been strangled, punched and knocked down the stairs,” she indicated each of the visible areas of injury. “Pulse is currently sixty, and she’s unresponsive. As far as I know, the only prescription medication she takes is a painkiller for migraines, but she was prescribed a course of antibiotics today that she hasn’t started yet, for the burn to her left arm. The dressing was last changed this afternoon.”

* * *

 

Jean Innocent turned her head to the side. She wished she hadn’t opened her eyes so wide; these white lights were excessive. Blinding.

“Ma’am,” a familiar, weary voice spoke. It seemed to come from a universe away, but when Jean turned her head to her right, she found James Hathaway leaning forward in his chair. This, Jean realised as her stomach tightened into that knot she knew so well, was a hospital ward. She could smell its clinical cleanliness and hear the beeping of a monitor. She registered vaguely that there was a scanner clipped onto her finger.

“James?” she asked. Her voice was hoarse; she felt where her throat had been bruised black and blue.

“Ma’am, you’re alright. The consultant wants to keep you in overnight for observation, and you’ve managed to do your ankle in, but you’ll be okay. Your scans came back fine, and you’ve avoided any spinal injury. Just no high heels for a while,” he smiled.

Jean forced a smile, for she knew he was trying to lift her spirits. But as she smiled, it all flooded back to her. She could feel where her body had hit corners of stars and bannisters and floor, and where a fist had slammed into her face. “Thomas,” she whispered. She didn’t know how else to convey what she wanted to know.

But James was on the same page. “He’s in custody,” he said reassuringly. “But we’re struggling to get all the evidence we need to formally charge him. Right now it’s basically his word against mine – what he says happened versus what I heard over the phone. We’re going to need a statement from you.”

Jean closed her eyes. She didn’t want to have to relive the fear she had felt in the few seconds she had tumbled down those stairs. She didn’t want to have to see him, hear him, deal with him, or even think about him. And yet all her mind could do was think about that man. He had finally done it. He had finally managed to make fear the loudest of the emotions that screamed in her head. Perhaps James sensed this, because he took her hand into his and assured her, “But we can discuss that later, ma’am.”

“Where’s Chris?”

“Asleep in the relatives’ room. Your sister and her husband and daughter are in there, too, with Robbie and Laura. It was my turn to keep vigil,” he explained with a soft smile.

She tightened her fingers around his. “James?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you,” she mumbled. “Thank you for coming when I called.”

“We promised we would,” he reminded her. As he said it, Jean’s eyes roamed the walls until she found a clock. It was after nine at night.

She smiled weakly at him. “You’ve got work in the morning.”

“Robbie made me take a day’s leave,” James admitted. “If I’m honest, I think he’d rather not have me anywhere within punching distance of your husband.”

“Why?” Jean asked.

“Because he nearly bloody killed you!” he retorted, like the answer was obvious. “For a moment, I thought you _were_ dead.”

“That must have been a moment of relief,” grinned Jean. James did not smile.

“No, ma’am. It was a moment of very real grief.”

Jean frowned at him. “What am I to you, James?”

He hesitated, so she fixed him with what she hoped was an encouraging look. “It’s very difficult to explain. I’ve tried before, but I’m not sure you heard me. I’m not even sure I put it very eloquently.”

She gently moved her hand until their fingers were interlocked. James set a rather confused gaze on her. “Try,” she said to him. “Try and explain it. I need to understand why all this bothers you like it does. Why it seems to hurt you.”

James sighed. He did speak, but his tone was filled with caution. “I explained before that before Robbie came home, you really were my first ally. At some stages, my _only_ ally.” Jean smiled slightly at him. They had been – and still were, to some degree – a pair of misfits. “Even when you don’t agree with me, you’ll still try to understand. You accept me and all my faults and eccentricities, even when I fail to exercise any control over what Robbie does. You challenge me and support me in perfect measures. And you’re competent, and stern, and intelligent, and witty, and brave, and beautiful,” he listed earnestly. This was the intensity of a man who needed her to believe what he said, until his face broke into a smirk. “And I don’t think there’s anyone in that station who hasn’t had a massive crush on you at some point.”

Jean raised an eyebrow at him, and realised exactly the flaw in his statement: “Robbie Lewis.”

“Yeah, but he only has eyes for his wife and Laura Hobson,” James said fairly. “He’s the exception that proves the rule.”

“And any man with his sight intact. And the women.”

“I’ll pretend you didn’t say that, ma’am. And no, I think you’ll find most of the women fancy the pants off you too,” he said to her. How was he winding her up like this with a straight face? “Callie Furlong – you know, Edward Johnstone’s sergeant – she reckons you’re the prettiest woman she’s ever seen.” He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper and added, “Sometimes she deliberately crosses you because, ‘Innocent has the most amazing eyes when she’s livid.’ Furlong’s words, ma’am, not mine.”

Jean could feel the colour rush to her cheeks and quipped, “Try to look like you’re enjoying yourself just a tiny bit less, James.” She made a mental note never to rage at Callie Furlong again, since it seemed she took such enjoyment from it.

James let out a low chuckle. “In all seriousness, though, in the past few months I’ve seen so much courage in you. The way you’ve never lost who you are to him is the proof that you’re brave and resilient. I know you think it’s Robbie I look up to, and I _do_ look up to him, but I look up to you, too. There’s so much in you to admire and adopt, to learn from. And after all we’ve been through recently, I think I wouldn’t do very well if I lost you.”

She hadn’t realised she was crying. She didn’t even know when she started. “Sorry,” she whimpered, wiping her tears away with her free hand. “I’m not very good at hearing people say nice things about me.”

“That’s because you’ve heard your husband say cruel things about you for so long you’ve come to believe they’re true,” James said, placing his hand on the back of hers. “One day, you’ll believe what we say to you instead.”

Jean smiled and squeezed his hand. She remembered that moment, that one moment that put her here in the first place, of bravery. Its ghost filled her heart and she said, “The statement you want, James, I’ll make it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she replied. “Time to be brave, hmm?”

James lifted her hand and gently pressed a kiss into her knuckles. That was the thing about James – his displays of affection towards her were never the ones she would ever have expected. It was one of his self-confessed eccentricities. “I’ll go and tell the nurse you’re awake, ma’am.”

With a jolt of pain, she remembered Thomas’ assertion that she did not deserve a name. A job title, or a maternal title, or a given name. And suddenly, she needed James to use her name. She needed someone to acknowledge she was a person, because she was not entirely sure she could do that for herself right now.

“Jean,” she corrected him. “My name is Jean.”

He pushed her hair back from her face. “Sorry,” he said quietly. “I’ll go and tell the nurse you’re awake, Jean.”


	25. Chapter 25

It was the next morning that Jean’s doctor allowed Ruth, Hendrik, Marjolein and Chris to see her together. Though she wanted it to make her feel safe and loved, as she knew it ought to, it only made her anxious. She should have been laughing at Marjolein using Chris as a climbing frame, and Ruth’s hand in hers should have been a comfort, but all she could find was an eternity of empty space between them and herself.

And when Marjolein complained of hunger, and Chris admitted he had not eaten since the previous morning, Ruth went into fussy mummy-auntie mode and dragged them out for food. Hendrik elected to stay with Jean.

Jean adored her brother-in-law. He was meticulous and disciplined, but deeply kind and decent. It had been little short of pure relief when Jean had watched Ruth marry him; she’d always harboured a fear Ruth would end up in a horrifically toxic relationship. Wasn’t it ironic that the sensible, ambitious, dutiful sister had ended up in a broken marriage, and the wilder, unruly, careless sister had a good, loving marriage?

Hendrik took the chair Ruth had just vacated – the chair closest to Jean – and gave her a cautious smile. He was the gentlest of men; Jean wasn’t sure he knew _how_ to lose his temper.

“Did I ever tell you about my first wife?” Hendrik asked her. “Back in Holland?”

“No,” Jean replied, shifting her weight to look at Hendrik without aggravating her bruises. “I didn’t even know you were married before you moved to England.”

“I was,” Hendrik said. There was still a Dutch thread that ran through his accent, and that occasionally transferred into Marjolein’s too. “Her name was Anneke. We were married for nearly six years, when I was a young man. We divorced a few months before I decided to move here.”

“Why aren’t you still married?”

“Anneke was…abusive,” Hendrik said carefully. “She was controlling. I was not allowed to do anything without her permission. And she was not shy about physical violence, either.” Jean picked at her blanket, looking down to watch her own fingers rather than her brother-in-law. “Of course, I was not able to see what was happening, and even if I could, I was not going to tell anyone. How could I say to anyone that my wife had me black, blue and every colour in the middle?”

Jean looked up at him. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. She had never known that.

“It took a lot of work on Ruth’s part to get through my protections,” Hendrik smiled slightly, “but you know Ruth. She’s tenacious.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” she replied with a quiet laugh.

Hendrik leaned forward and softly put his hand on Jean’s wrist. “It is hard. I know that. But this part is like the detox stage. This is where you have to say that this is a problem, and that you need to remove it from your life.”

“Why did you decide to leave Anneke?” asked Jean.

Hendrik sighed, and paused for a moment. Jean wanted to apologise, to say it was none of her business, but her head wouldn’t allow it. She was too clouded with painkillers and anxiety to think in a straight line. “One evening, I was at a work’s party,” Hendrik began, “and I noticed something: none of my friends and colleagues were afraid of their partners. And I was. I had never understood how terrified I was every single day until I saw people who did not spent their lives walking on eggshells around their partner. They had confidence and light in their eyes, and I had no self-esteem and fear in my eyes.”

She knew that feeling. She knew what it was to see how differently other people seemed to live and love, and the fleeting glimpses of the knowledge that they had it right and she and Thomas had it very wrong.

“There are very few occasions in my life I can label as courageous – perhaps the day I asked Ruth to marry me – but that night, I found some courage. I found some pride. I made a plan in my head. And the next morning I called my boss and said I was ill. I think he presumed I was hungover, but he never said much about it. I waited for Anneke to leave for work. While she was at work, I called my brother and I told him everything. I was so scared, Jean, because I did not think he would believe me. I mean, look at the size of me. It is not a likely story that I was being beaten and abused by a woman. But he believed me. We gathered my belongings into both our cars and we left.”

Jean was floored. She had never entertained the thought that Hendrik might have had a past like her present. But weren’t these the things they hid from the rest of the world? It would not have surprised Jean if the only people he ever told were his brother and Ruth. She didn’t say anything, for she sensed he was not finished talking. But she did take his hand, as James had so often taken hers.

“Even now, I look at Ruth and Marjolein and the life I have here, and sometimes I cannot justify having such amazing, beautiful things,” he confessed quietly. “Sometimes I still believe the things Anneke told me. That I am stupid, unlovable, weak…”

“You’re not,” Jean said. “I wouldn’t have let you marry my sister if you were.”

Hendrik smiled, and Jean felt her face break into a grin. “I know that,” he replied. “You hold people to such high standards, the fact you were happy for me to marry Ruth is something I shall always take as a compliment.”

“You don’t run a competent CID if you don’t hold your people to high standards,” Jean reasoned. “The same goes for everything else.”

“Then why have you never held Thomas to that standard?” Hendrik asked sharply. “In all the years I have known you, Jean, I have never seen you hold Thomas to the same standard you hold the rest of us. You hold yourself to _ridiculously_ high standards, so why would you not expect the same of your husband?”

“Ask the easy questions, Hendrik, why don’t you?” Jean retorted sarcastically.

“These questions are not easy, Jean,” Hendrik said. “But if you cannot answer them right now, that’s okay.”

* * *

 

Jean got out of James’ car with difficulty. She was not accustomed to crutches, but her ankle was fractured and in a cast. As Robbie had pointed out earlier today, she was bloody lucky all she got was a bump to the head, a few bruises and a fractured ankle. James helped her out of the car when he saw her struggling, and steadied her until she was able to lean properly on her crutches. He even unlocked the front door for her.

But once she was through that front door, the bottom dropped out of her stomach. It didn’t matter where she looked. It was all here. And now that Thomas wasn’t here, Jean was left with the quiet emptiness and the ghosts of her own internal screams. It bounced off the walls, echoing in her head as the whole house seemed to spin around her. It was pathetic, of course, but part of her needed Thomas if she was to stay under this roof. She didn’t know how to live here alone. At least with him here, she was distracted from the ghosts, if only because she was watching the very real monster that had always lurked at her back.

She looked up to the top of the stairs. That hand was around her throat again, and she could see that angry, unhinged look in a face she had thought she had known. She wanted to look away – oh, she so badly wanted to tear her eyes from that spot – but her stare was fixed. There was no moving it.

“Ma’am?” James’ voice rang out from the distance. To find him mere inches from her made her startle backwards. “Jean?”

She looked up at him, his face a magnet that pulled her eyes away from the landing. He was so much taller than she was. If he wanted to, he could so easily break her. But, she reminded herself, this was James Hathaway, and he would not harm her. That was practically the only certainty she had. “I can’t,” she whispered. “I can’t.” Those were the only two words her brain could produce. It spewed out of her mouth like faulty programming in a computer. “I can’t. I can’t. I _can’t_!”

“Okay,” James said quietly. “You don’t have to.” He helped her to leave the house, and the fear and panic that had been building in her chest slowly started to melt. “Do you mind if I go and collect some of your belongings? It’s no longer a crime scene – I can take whatever you need.”

“There should be a suitcase already packed in the bedroom,” she replied. “Toothbrush in the bathroom.”

He stroked her hair for a moment with a look that didn’t comfort Jean very much. It told her very loudly that he saw far more than she would have liked, and understood her better than she would ever have asked him to. “Come on, back into the car,” he said, guiding her back to the passenger side, “and I’ll go and get your stuff.”

Sat in the car, Jean stared up at the house. It was large, and imposing, and void of life. It was strange to Jean, that she suddenly could not set foot in the house she had lived in for years, now that the person who had made it Hell was not there. There was no sense to it. How could it be that she could not inhabit the place now that it was safe? Now that there was nobody there who could harm her? How on Earth did that make any sense at all? There was no rationality to it. And if there was one thing Jean Innocent hated, it was things that didn’t make any rational sense.

James returned to the car and put a suitcase and a rucksack in the boot; he got into the driver’s seat and gave Jean back her keys. “Thanks,” she mumbled. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he replied. “It’s little wonder that house scares you. You nearly died in there.”

When they reached James’ home, he let Jean in and then went back out to fetch her things. She felt guilty that he was running around after her, but he would only fight her if she tried to stop him, and she didn’t want to upset him. “Are you going to manage those stairs, ma’am?” James called as he shut the front door. He walked in, his eyes closed with a grimace across his face. “Jean. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Jean said. “That was just…something Thomas said to me. It touched a nerve,” she admitted.

“I think I know what it was.” James sat down next to her. “He said you don’t deserve to be called Chief Superintendent Innocent, or Mum, or Jean. So I suppose something as impersonal as ‘ma’am’ might not be very welcome at the moment.”

Jean looked around at James. She had not expected him to understand at all, never mind without having it explained to him. “Yes,” she said, her voice barely more than a mumble. “And no, I can’t see me getting up the stairs without help. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

“I can help you,” James offered. “You’ll be very sore. It won’t be comfortable to sleep on the sofa. And you’ll have to use the stairs to get to the bathroom as well.”

“I don’t want to be a burden.”

“You’re not.”

Never had she felt so many different things at once. It was crushing her; there was no describing any of it, even if she had the courage to tell James everything. All she could communicate to James was, “I’m tired.”

“Would you like to go upstairs and sleep?” he asked her.

“No,” she said. The one thing she did know was that, right now, to be alone was not a wise idea. “Can we…can we just sit?” She could not help but be hesitant about it. “I don’t think I can really move. My legs feel like lead.”

James smiled slightly. “Of course,” he said. Jean leaned back into the sofa, and James snatched the television remote up from the coffee table. “How about we find some silly film on the TV and fall asleep halfway through?” he suggested.

Jean laughed quietly. As he switched the television on, she realised James had not missed a single beat back at that house. He had not hesitated in taking her from her own perceived danger, and he had instantly decided to take her where he believed she would be safe. In that moment, Jean realised what James was to her. He was her friend, her ally, the person with whom she felt safest. He understood her, and she could trust him with what he saw. It was like she had been given a friend tailor made for her, so that she could come out the other end of this alive.

Her mind wandered to Hendrik, who had run from a spouse just as she had, though probably in more courageous a fashion than allowing himself to be knocked down a flight of stairs. And he now had a wife and a beautiful little girl. He had a life. He was happy. And everything he had said to her, Jean now saw, had come from the experience of surviving the same kind of brutality she had faced. That same mental, emotional and physical warfare that threatened to destroy Jean.

Hendrik was right. This was hard. There was a voice in her that told her she ought to forgive Thomas, to take him back and give him another chance. But Hendrik spoke as someone now on the outside of his own storm, with the knowledge to share what he had learned with Jean; he was probably hoping it would save her from drowning.

Jean carefully placed her head on James’ chest, and listened to his heart beating while he flicked through the channels looking for a film for them to watch. “I’m sorry for being a bit useless,” she said. “I don’t know what came over me. It’s not like I’ve not gone in there a million times before. Christ, it’s the safest that house has ever been.”

“You’re not useless,” said James, settling on a film. “It’s understandable that it would unnerve you to be in that house, especially when it’s empty.”

“But there’s no danger when it’s empty, and I know that. It’s just my stupid brain can’t grasp that concept.”

“No, Jean.” There was a forcefulness in James’ voice that made Jean crane her neck to look up at his face. “When it’s empty, it’s quiet, and memories are louder in the quiet. The memories you must have of that house are of being abused, beaten, degraded and silenced. It’s perfectly okay if you don’t feel you can face them the day after you were almost killed there.”

He put an arm around her, and Jean turned her head to look at the television. When she realised what movie was starting, there was little she could do but burst out laughing. “ _Finding Nemo_?” she asked, choking on her own laughter. “What are we, seven?”

“Just keep swimming,” James sang, resting his hand on the side of Jean’s head, his fingers in her hair. “Just keep swimming, just keep swimming, swimming, swimming!”

Jean grinned into James’ chest, grateful that he was not pressing her for answers and explanations she could not yet give.


End file.
